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QUABBIN 

THE STORY OF A SMALL TOWN 



WITH 



Outlooks Upon Puritan Life 



\/rv 



BY 

FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD LL.D. 

ir 

FORMERLY U. S. CONSUL AT GLASGOW 

AUTHOR OF "handbooks OF ENGLISH LITERATURE" "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

LOWELL, LONGFELLOW, AND WHITTIER " " LORD OF HIMSELF " A NOVEL, ETC. 



" How well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world." 

As You Like It. 



" Through the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." 

Locksley Hall. 



BOSTON J^O'V 
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 

lO MILK STREET 
1893 

\ 



\ %. -N 






Copyright, 1892, by Lee and Shepard 



All Rig-hts Reserved 



Q\J A B B I N 



To those, wherever they are, who have inherited the blood 
and shared the progress of the descendants of Pilgrims and 
Puritans, this book is respectfully dedicated. 

Of those, comparatively few are now to be found in 
Massachusetts or in New England : most of them are settled 
along the belt of migration through Western New York, 
Ohio, and Michigan, the Mississippi Valley, and across the 
continent. 

It is by men and women of Puritan lineage, developed 
by religious tolerance and universal education, that the insti- 
tutions and the glory of New England are to be preserved, 
after the homes of their ancestors have been occupied by 
people of other races and other ideas. 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 




PAGE 


I. 


QUABBIN 


I 


11. 


Through the Village .... 


II 


III. 


Farms and Farm-Life .... 


i8 


IV. 


Settlement 


. 27 


V. 


Atmosphere 


33 


VI. 


The First Minister .... 


• 39 


VII. 


Patient Emily 


49 


VIII. 


JuDAisTic Leanings 


. 62 


IX. 


Dress, Manners, and Speech 


68 


X. 


How the Poor were cared for. —Aunt 


Keziah. 




— The Widow Carter 


. 81 


XI. 


Character 


. . 96 


XII. 


The Quiltin' 


. 107 


XIII. 


Working the Roads .... 


118 


XIV. 


Village and Country .... 


. 128 


XV. 


Town, Parish, and Church 


133 


XVI. 


The Second Minister .... 


. 141 


XVII. 


The Campaign begun .... 


149 


XVIII. 


Sunday Observances .... 


. 162 


XIX. 


Transition 


. . 176 


XX. 


How the Twig was bent 


. . 187 


XXI. 


QUABBIN loses AND GAINS . 


194 


XXII. 


Colleges and Ministers 


. 207 


XXIII 


Might have been a Romance 


219 


XXIV. 


The Cider-Mill ..... 


. . 238 



VI 11 CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PACE 

XXV. An Exit . '. 247 

XXVI. Robert IV 256 

XXVII. Dawn . 266 

XXVIII. Miss Wicks's Tea-Party 274 

XXIX. A Talk by the Roadside 287 

XXX. An Arrival 296 

XXXI. An Excursion 308 

XXXII. Another Tea-Party 325 

XXXIII. Literature 343 

XXXIV. The Return of the Native .... 354 

Appendix 1 367 

Appendix II., Civil Liberty 371 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Portrait of Author 

In the Road around Little Quabbin 

Birches on the River Bank 

The Meeting-House 

A Stately House of the Olden Time 

A Part of the Village Common 

A Prosperous Farm and Centennial Elm 

A Farmhouse by the Roadside 

A Typical Farmer 

Crombie's Bridge 

A Coil in the River 

One of the Author's Old Friends 

Playmates by the Haystack 

The pictures are reproduced by John Andrew & Son Company from 
photographs by Colin Pitblado, Esq., crayon artist, Hartford, Conn. 

The portrait is from a photograph by a lady amateur, taken about four 
years ago in Glasgow, Scotland. 



QUABBIN 



CHAPTER I 

QUABBIN 

Among the memories of childhood, — next after the 
impressions of a mother's brooding love, and of the 
home wherein the new unit of humanity first becomes 
conscious of being the centre of a universe, — the most 
indelible is the visual line that encircles his birthplace, 
with the perspectives that stretch out to it. To the 
Quabbin boy the boldly marked sky-line on the ridges 
of hills that shut in the valley under its blue roof was 
the boundary of the known world. Strangers must 
have looked upon the little village with compassion ; 
but for the natives it was cheerful ; they knew no 
other. In the small houses there was no luxury 
surely, but no lack of wholesome food or seasonable 
raiment. There were schools for six months in the 
year, and sermons twice every Sunday, — Sahbaday 
it was in the vernacular. 

News brought by the county paper was seldom more 
than two weeks old ; and authoritative expositions of 
public affairs were given at the tavern and the post- 
office by persons who had actually seen New York, and 
who spoke of Boston with an air of familiarity. 



2 QUABBIN 

The valley and neighborhood have not essentiall 
changed in the hundred and sixty years since their firs j , 
settlement ; for the natural features are too marked X.( 
be affected by the superficial touches of man. Plough; 
and axes do not disturb the eternal basis of landscape 
and a few houses more, or a few trees less, do no 
matter. 

The hill that rises south of the village v/as once cov! 
ered with great oaks and chestnuts which had shelterec, " 
Indian hunters. The red men called the hill Great 
Quabbin, and the name belonged to the district as well. 
Year after year the white settlers waged war upon the 
venerable trees: instead of being a patriarchal forest 
to be cherished, it was a piece of stubborn "woods" 
to be cleared away. By and by lines of fence, like 
geometric diagrams, were traced on the hill's broad 
shoulders, enclosing sage-green pastures, sparsely tufted 
with wood-fern and huckleberry bushes, and known by 
all boys of the village to be rosy with strawberries 
every summer. 

It was a Delectable Mountain for children, even after 
the majestic trees were felled. The ascent was easy; 
for a primitive road, partly grass-grown, led to the 
table-land at the summit, where w^ere two small, decay- 
ing farmhouses, since destroyed. To one looking 
back when half-way up, the village below, nestling 
under shade-trees on both sides of the river, had a soft 
and almost unreal beauty ; but as one climbed, it sank 
out of sight under the swelling buttress of the hill. 
The upper region was alpine in its cool serenity, its 
airy pastures, sparkling brook, and broad horizon. 
Sixty miles away rose a grand mountain, pyramidal 
and blue, — a melting vapory blue that one expected 



QUAE BIN 3 

to see blown away; while in the opposite direction was 
.grouped a confused and retreating mass of hills, seen 
I'beyond the golden mist of the Connecticut valley. 

It was a delight to take deep draughts of the exhila- 
Trating air, to watch the thin, spectral wreaths of smoke 
rising from distant houses, to count afar the many 
steeples, mere glimmering white lances, and to seek 
out the purply-gray forms of well-known mountains 
around. No voices, nor hum of machinery, nor ring of 
hammer were heard from the valley. The only sounds 
that broke the stillness were the occasional lowing of 
cattle, the murmur of brooks, and the light, silvery 
strokes of the meeting-house clock. The bell had a 
tender, harmonious tone, full of solemn suggestion, 
associated with an austere worship and with funerals, 
but never with weddings or public rejoicings. Earth 
was beautiful in remoteness, and heaven near. The 
mountain lifted an imaginative child toward infinity, 
and he clung to it as if conscious of the desperate 
whirl of the globe through space. 

Opposite, behind the village, rose the lesser northern 
hill (Ram Mountain), a somewhat irregular but beautiful 
cone of granite, jagged here and there with projecting 
edges of rock, and at that time thinly covered with 
soil. Once there were thick bushes and dwarfish trees 
on its sides, and plumes of tall pines were set jauntily 
on its crest ; but it was ravaged and stripped by chop- 
pers, and left with scarred forehead, and dreary, naked 
flanks. When clad in green, the hill had been stately 
and jovous, but in its bereavement was shame-faced 
and dispirited. Still, it had a placid look for the meet- 
ing-house at its foot, and its rugged mass made an 
effective background for the white steeple. 



4 QUABBIN 

The hill on the east side of the village, known as 
Little Ouabbin, was rather too far away to have much 
part in the landscape. However, it did its best in 
delaying the morning sun, in upholding the north end 
of summer rainbows, and in sending back reflections 
from its massy ledges at sunset. 

Quabbin is at its best in summer, in its rich vesture 
of green. The numerous springs and the dewy air 
keep the pastures and meadows fresh, while the shade- 
trees in streets and gardens, the adjacent forests, and 
the scattered wild growths (from hazel or alder bushes 
to vigorous oaks and chestnuts), are so luxuriant and 
widespread that it is difficult to find a clear vista in 
any direction. The main roads, it must be confessed, 
would be dull, if it were not for the outlooks upon hills- 
and farms ; but there are many by-ways, exquisite as 
the dreamy idyls of Corot. One road by the western 
side of Ram Mountain, after passing a beautiful slope 
of farming-land, leads into a young forest where there 
is a flecked shade even at midday, and a sense of cool- 
ness, with a fresh, cheery smell, that is partly earthy, 
and partly leafy. The road meanders under the living 
arch among countless (and nameless) bushes and wild 
flowers, and appears to consist of a faintly worn path 
for a horse, two dim wheel-tracks, and intervening 
lines of tufted grass, which is often tall enough to 
brush the axle-trees. After reaching the open "front 
yard" of a small house two or three miles beyond, it 
comes to an end. 

Another road, around the northern end of Little 
Quabbin, passes along the fringe of woods that hangs 
upon the mountain side ; and the visitor finds himself 
in a long, winding, arched way, dim as a cathedral aisle, 



QUAE BIN 5 

but with glimpses of warm sunlight reflected from the 
fertile lands that lie just outside of the screen of white 
birches on his left. What artist or photographer could 
give an idea of the strong yet grateful contrast between 
the green gloom on the one hand, and the flickering 
splendors that come to him through tender birch leaves 
and vellum-cased branches on the other ? 

The three hills, standing at different angles, shut in 
the village, which partly rests on the rounded bases 
of two of them, while the river, which is the life of 
the valley, glides in swift curves at their feet. 

The banks of Swift River have been sadly maltreated. 
Once, near the cove, above the dam, a belt of young 
pine-trees, uniform, softly rounded, and velvety green, 
followed the stream and the cove in many a coil ; and, 
below the dam, there were at intervals thickets of alders, 
water-maples, shad-bushes, willow clumps, with myriads 
of lithe red shoots, wild-grape vines, tangled clematis, 
and the " swamp pink," parent of the garden azalea. 
But the meandering belt of pines fell under the axe 
long ago ; and in its place sprang up white birches, as 
if to make a fringe on the naked border ; while, little 
by little, the banks down stream were cleared of the 
*' brush " that yielded no income except to children and 
poets. Many of the shrubs that crowded the wet 
margins, such as the blushing, sweet-scented azaleas, 
and the shad-bushes that wore fresh bridal veils every 
May, became only memories. Utility had its way, and 
this part of the river's edge was for years like an eyelid 
without lashes. 

There is a pretty reach of still water near the cove, 
full, black, and lustrous. On one side is a meadow 
with a few hickory -trees ; on the other, the high bank 



6 QUABDm 

covered with young birches. On a windless afternoon 
might be seen a boat, with children rowing, its stem 
silently cutting through reflections of leafy sprays, of 
slender white trunks, leaning at all angles, and of sunny 
clouds in distant blue below. 

In early times the whole region was dripping with 
springs, and shaggy with vegetation ; and even to-day, 
such is the struggle for existence, there are few trim 
lawns or meadows of grass free from the intrusion of 
coarser species. The leafy robes of the hills trailed 
on the lowlands ; while bushes, briers, ferns, or brakes 
filled the fence-corners and road-sides, and bordered 
the water-courses. 

A mile above the centre was the north village, 
grouped around another dam, and at some distance 
beyond was a lake, framed in sombre hills. Its margin 
was surrounded by such trees as burn with richest 
colors in autumn; so that from the uplands, after the 
first light frost, the distant sheen of water appeared in 
a setting of crimson, yellow, gold-brown, and dark red ; 
and, coming nearer, one would say that the trees were 
standing in the water's edge and admiring themselves 
in the mirror. 

There was a s^ood view from a farmhouse on the 
side of the eastern hill (Little Ouabbin), or, better,- 
from the hill-top, looking Avestward. This view em- 
braced the cove, the river winding through meadows, 
the village, tufted with maples and elms, the white 
spire standing out from the northern hill, and the broad 
expanse of the southern hill, which dominates the 
region. The traveller who has seen something of the 
Old World finds that the tranquil beauty of this scene 
lingers in memory, and will not be overlain. Some- 



QUAE BIN 7 

thino- must be allowed for early associations, but the 
ima-e of this landscape remains clear. It needs only 
to have been celebrated m song or famous m story. 
Ouabbin is not famous. 

'^ The meeting-house of the village formerly stood side- 
wise to the road in a green space, flanked by rows of 
horse-sheds, some of them decrepit, and all unpamted 
In its first estate it was of a dingy sulphur color, and 
without a steeple ; but its oaken frame and trussed roof 
were made to endure. Later, a steeple was set astride 
the roof; the building was painted white, furmshed 
with green (outside) blinds, and turned with its end to 
the street. - The vane, of sheet metal, gilded, was cut 
in fo^-m of a man, the head cleaving the wind, and the 
legs extended for rudder. As it turned with a sharp 
cry on the rod which pierced its body, it needed but 
little aid from the imagination of a boy to become the 
image of some sinner transfixed in air, and held aloft to 
swing in lingering pain. ^ 

In later days the boys found, in the. cob-webbed and 
dusty space below the belfry, a long-forgotten cask of 
ball cartridges, which had been kept, according to law, 
to be ready for an emergency that never happened. 
The paper covers were rotten, and the powder de- 
composed; and it was great fun to drop the leaden 
ounce-balls from the belfry railing, and then find them 
flattened and hot upon the stone steps below. 

The pulpit within was high, approached by flights of 
stairs, and above it was hung a sounding-board, m 
shape like an extinguisher. It was often a matter of 
wonder as to what would happen to the minister if the 
chain should break ; but the boys were assured by the 
thouo-ht that ''The Lord is mindful of his own." 



8 QUAE BIN 

The pews were square, each family being enclosed as 
in a pen, all facing inwards. The uncushioned wooden 
seats were hinged, and were raised as people stood up 
during prayer, to fall with a multitudinous clatter when 
the prayer ended. There was a gallery on three sides, 
the part facing the pulpit being occupied by the choir. 

A century earlier it was the custom in New England 
to ''scat the meeting;" that is, to assign seats to the 
town's people according to their rank, as magistrates, 
elders, deacons, college-bred men, land-owners, mechan- 
ics, and laborers. In Ouabbin each head of a family 
owned the pew he occupied, paying an annual tax 
thereon to the parish. The best places in the meeting- 
house belonged. to those who had the money to pay for 
them. 

The sheds adjoining the meeting-house were for the 
shelter of the ''teams" of the country people; and in 
sum.mer, when the windows were open, the services 
were frequently enlivened (for restless boys) by the 
stamping, whinnying, and squealing of lonesome or fly- 
pestered horses. The village schoolhouse was next 
beyond the eastern sheds, and behind them was the 
hillside burying-ground. 

The boy of Ouabbin who returns to his native town 
a man of sixty does not walk alone through the street. 
People of the old time meet and accost him, or nod to 
him from their wonted places. He knows every figure 
and face, and the color and cut of their clothes. His 
youth comes back, and he sees his playfellows become 
bridegrooms, then fathers of families, then patriarchs, 
— the same beings passing through the successive 
changes of a lifetime while he looks, — and he, mean- 
while, able to recall any phase of their career at will. 



QUABBIN 9 

He sees, with the eye of memory, sunburnt and grizzled 
men in bkie frocks leaning at the posts of the black- 
smith's open door, while within, by the lurid light, 
sinewy arms turn the glowing horseshoe, and showers 
of golden fire fly at each strenuous blow. The names 
of those grizzled men have long been chiselled on tomb- 
stones, but there they are by the smithy, and the man 
of sixty, once more a boy, knows them well. Others 
he sees drivins: ox-teams with losrs for the saw-mill, men 
and oxen alike calmly chewing the cud, while long 
whips are waved encouragingly, and *'Haw, Buck!" or 
"Gee, Bright! " enlivens the slow procession. 

Another, from a former generation, comes in a heavy 
wagon, thorough-braced and well spattered with ancient 
mud. His wife sits by him, in camlet cloak and scoop 
bonnet, and they are bound for the store. In the box 
behind the seat they have a basket of eggs, a "four- 
meal " cheese, and a firkin of butter, to be exchanged for 
tea, molasses, and other " boughten " goods. Another, 
younger and livelier, is whirling by in a buggy, show- 
ing off his trotting-horse. The animal is not groomed to 
a satin gloss, and, in fact, is rough in coat, and perhaps 
tangled in mane and tail ; but his great haunches work 
powerfully, and his feet appear to be all the time in the 
air, reaching ahead. He "gets over the ground," and 
often sends a dash of gravel back at his keen and tricky 
driver. 

If it is Sunday, our friend of sixty years sees groups 
of men and youths whom he knew long ago, loitering 
upon the meeting-house steps, all visibly uncomfortable 
in holiday clothes, discussing the affairs of town and 
church ; the bachelors, with eyes in ambush, demurely 
watching the in-coming maids. Some of the ungodly 



lO QUAE BIN 

and disreputable are haunting the dilapidated and windy 
old tavern across the green. He knows these pariahs, 
though they have long lain in nameless graves. 

As the Ouabbin boy of sixty continues his rounds, 
other faces, long forgotten, arc projected in memory's 
camera. All of them belong to people who were once 
h's townsmen. One brilliant man, after many vicissi- 
tudes, was a banker, and heaped up wealth, which his 
prodigal son in after years was to waste. His bi;other, 
the man with studious, meditative countenance, 
was a physician. That beautiful youth, the banker's 
nephew, after a successful beginning, and with the 
haven of love in sight, returned to Ouabbin to die ; 
while his betrothed, white as a lily, drooped under the 
weeds of eternal widowhood. This gentleman with 
gold spectacles went from the principal "store" of 
Ouabbin, and set up in Boston an establishment whose 
name is a household word and a synonyme of honor. 
That boon companion, whose talk was illustrated with 
oaths, dissipated an ample fortune, and laughed away 
with merry curses his friends and reputation. Another, 
with dazed and vacant look, lost the savings of a life- 
time by trusting them to a stock operator, who posed 
as a Christian philanthropist. 

The plainly dressed man, he with devout expres- 
sion and 'Mocks commercing with the skies," was a 
mill-worker, whose soul was so full of the love of God 
that men felt holier and stronger for the touch of his 
hand, or the sound of his voice. Neither wealthy nor 
learned nor eloquent, he had inexhaustible riches, 
celestial knowledge, and the pentecostal gift of tongues. 
At least one spot in the bleak hillside is holy ground. 



THROUGH THE VILLAGE II 



CHAPTER II 

THROUGH THE VILLAGE 

Time is busy in levelling hills, abrading garden ter- 
races, flattening grave-mounds, and abasing old families. 
The gulf between the rich and poor may continue as 
absolute as that between Dives and Lazarus ; but the 
traditional prominence of old families, if not already a 
thing of the past, is departing, along with gracious 
memories, and with much that used to inspire admira- 
tion and deference. In a village like Quabbin there is 
little at this day to render one old house more vener- 
able than another, but sixty years ago there were differ- 
ences not to be explained by value or picturesqueness. 
More was thought of intangible qualities and associa- 
tions, such as cluster about the homes of beloved men 
and scenes of historic interest. A few houses in the 
village had an indefinable charm for those who remem- 
bered their former occupants. There is one in a 
commanding position near the cross-roads which is 
venerable in slow decay, and out of relations with 
modern neighbors. Two ancient elms tower over the 
grounds, and are seen afar. One of the patriots who 
fought at Bunker's Hill built the house, then con- 
sidered a mansion. His wife, the descendant of a 
Huguenot family, had three sons by a former mar- 
riage ; and these-, in their maturity, were the only per- 



12 QUABBIN 

sons in Quabbin that could, in the strict sense, be called! 
o;entlemcn. The bright old lady long survived her 
husband, and made a striking picture as she moved 
about in her wheeled-chair, accompanied by one of 
her sons, a grave and stately man, who lived with her. 
Another son built a dwelling nearer the meeting-house. 
It appeared to be the dream of some inspired carpenter, 
a dream of wooden pilasters, wreaths, and scrolls, with a 
fretwork balustrade of wheel patterns upon the eaves, 
and an arched and decorated gateway, all in glittering 
white. Hillside terraces at the rear, with flower-beds 
and fruit-trees, were to youthful eyes like the hanging 
gardens of Babylon. The owner, with his tropical com- 
plexion of pale orange, his gold-rimmed spectacles, and 
his distinguished manners, in which dignity, courtesy, 
and kindness had equal share, was a wonderful person 
in Ouabbin sixty years ago. For he had actually sailed 
around the world ; his cheeks had acquired their rich 
color in China, where he had been a tea-merchant ; the 
bronze idols and the great vases that adorned his rooms 
had come from farthest East. Besides, he knew Euro- 
pean capitals, and, along with his well-earned wealth, he 
had brought to the village an aroma from spice-lands, a 
knowledge of the world, and the grand air that so be- 
comes a travelled man. 

The third of the brothers, a manufacturer, built a 
fine house, but with less ornament, on a knoll not far 
distant. All three could have been presented with 
credit at any court. They spoke the language of the 
educated world ; but, along with their somewhat cere- 
monious manners, they had a sense of what was due to 
others, especially to humble neighbors ; and as they 
were public-spirited, just, and generous, they were 



THROUGH THE VILLAGE 1 3 

respected and loved. No one envied them their good 
fortune — a rare experience, whether in Ouabbin or 
elsewhere. 

The sombre old house with its two elms connected 
the village with the by-gone days of the colony ; and 
the little old lady, while she lived, was a link with the 
great world, as her family was justly distinguished. 
But there may not be a living descendant of her three 
sons, and few of the present inhabitants know even 
the names of the men v/ho first gave distinction to 
Quabbin. 

What views the three original proprietors had in re- 
gard to religion, letters, schools, or art, it would be diffi- 
cult now to say. They ''went to meeting," apparently 
as a duty, and they took a modest part in town affairs ; 
but between them and the town's people there must 
have been little intimacy. The general dulness in their 
time must have been impenetrable. They owned the 
water-power, which was the source of the tow^n's pros- 
perity and their own, but they sold it to two brothers 
who were born in one of the old farmhouses which once 
stood on the top of the southern hill. These latter 
were shrewd, able, and honorable men, but were less 
courtly, and reputed to be less generous, than their 
predecessors. 

They were for a long time the great men of the town, 
until a third family, which had long ruled the north 
village, acquired a paramount interest in the property. 

The principal store of the town is remembered chiefly 
by its permanent odor, in which there were suggestions 
of dried codfish, pickled mackerel, spices, snuff, plug 
tobacco, molasses, and new rum, re-enforced in cold 
weather by the evaporation of tobacco juice upon a hot 



14 QUABBIN 

stove, and the occasional whiff of a pipe. The store- 
keeper was quiet and shrewd, and knew the cumulative 
power of compound interest. A farmer who had fallen 
behind-hand could get a continuance of supplies, includ- 
ing the indispensable jug, by giving a mortgage upon his 
lai-,(^|^ — a backward step which was seldom retrieved, — 
so that in the course of years the storekeeper's roofs 
might have been measured by acres. He was not in 
•the least dishonest, but he worked frankly for his own 
interest ; and it must not be forgotten that, in transac- 
tions with customers who are habitually fuddled and 
confused, a clear-headed man has all the advantage. 
Farms were exchanged for rum or cider-brandy, with 
shabbiness, degradation, and family misery thrown in. 
As the use of spirits was universal, a dealer incurred 
no obloquy, nor injury to his social standing. 

There were other storekeepers, although they sold no 
spirits. One of them did a snug business, though 
noted for a scrimping nicety in weights and measures, 
and for a keen lookout after fractions. People were 
not overjoyed to see a fig torn in halves in case of over 
weight, — that a fig was bitten in such an emergency 
was a slander, — nor to pay invariably thirteen cents 
for twelve and a half ; yet the proprietor once, in a 
glow of virtuous pride, referred to the substantial sum 
realized in a year from this salutary rule of retaining 
the half-cents in makinji chancre. 

The perplexities of the currency in olden times were 
manifold. Though the present decimal coinage had 
been long established by law, the custom of reckoning 
by shillings, six to the dollar, was well nigh universal 
in Massachusetts. At the same time, a large part of 
the silver coins in use consisted of Mexican dollars. 



THROUGH THE VILLAGE 1 5 

halves, quarters, eighths, and sixteenths, all bearing 
the pillared arms of Spain ; and between these coins 
and the traditional but imaginary " shillings " there 
was a rare confusion, demanding a mastery of vulgar 
fractions which only *' Colburn's Mental Arithmetic" 
could give. A Mexican eighth was worth 12^ cents, 
but it was always called a '' ninepence," that being its 
value in the traditional '* shilling " of 16^ cents. A 
Mexican sixteenth, 6% cents, was called a *' four-pence 
ha'penny." Prices of goods were marked in shillings; 
e. g., " tvvo-and-three-pence " in place of 37>< cents, 
four shillings in place of 662^ cents, five shillings for 
83 >i cents, etc. The constant multiplication of the 
fractional tags insensibly drew from the public, and 
sensibly added to the dealer's till. It was in compara- 
tively recent times that the Mexican coins were driven 
out, and that the custom of reckoning by shillings fell 
into disuse. 

In this store, conducted on such sound financial 
principles, an Exalted Personage in the government of 
the United States received his first mercantile training, 
and began his successful career. In the sketches of 
his life, published during the campaign prior to his 
election, it is a. matter of regret that the lonely place 
of his apprenticeship was overlooked. It was a misfor- 
tune for Ouabbin, 

.Some sixty years ago the old tavern opposite the 
meeting-house having ''run down," a new one of three 
stories was built in the centre, at the cross-roads. 
There was a daily stage-route from the county town 
to Boston, and a four-horse coach, announced by a 
far-echoing horn, came thundering down the hill road 
in the early morning, and discharged its passengers at 



1 6 QUAE BIN 

the tavern for breakfast. There were few travellers 
who put up there, except the stage passengers. The 
chief revenue was from the bar. The sound of the 
toddy-stick was often heard, even in the street. It was 
a rhythmical roll, and each bar-keeper prided himself 
upon his special tattoo. Farmers coming to mill or 
shop, especially in winter, stopped there with their 
teams, the shivering animals, being often forgotten 
while they drank hot toddy by the bar-room fire. The 
stable was haunted by day, and the bar-room by night, 
by shady and mysterious creatures, willing drudges for 
food and drams. To one coming from the fresh air with- 
out, the breath of that fiery bar-room was overpowering. 
The odors of the hostlers' boots, redolent of fish-oil 
and tallow, and of buffalo-robes and horse-blankets, the 
latter reminiscent of equine ammonia, almost got the 
better of the all-pervading fumes of spirits and tobacco. 
Clay pipes for "cut plug" were much in favor, though 
some reckless spendthrifts, at times, smoked principe 
cigars at three cents each. 

This was the exchange for rustic wit, the focus of 
hate for parsons and deacons, and of ridicule for the 
new-fangled temperance sbciety. The walls were 
adorned with placards of stage-routes, woodcuts of 
enormous stallions in prancing attitudes, and notices 
of sheriffs' sales, — the land or the stock of some 
deceased or ruined farmer to be offered at "public 
vendue." The country people gave the word nearly 
the French sound, vandue. No one then used the 
term auction. 

The Masonic Hall at the cross-roads was deserted. 
The lodge never met, and the room was used at times 
for a private school. Boys used to set up the Semitic 



THROUGH THE VILLAGE 17 

pillars, and to speculate upon the mysteries of the craft. 
The affair of Morgan, believed to have been murdered 
" out in York State " for exposing the secret rites, was 
then recent and blood-curdling. Public opinion was 
overwhelmingly against the order. 



1 8 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER III 

FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 

The territory of Ouabbin comprises little more than 
the winding valley and the various slopes and tribu- 
taries that lead to it, with the hills already described ; 
and it will be seen that there could have been but few 
large spaces for cultivation. Some half-dozen of the 
farms became long ago rich in grass and grain ; but in 
spite of the labors of generations in reclaiming bogs 
and clearing fields of stones, the area of productive land 
does not appear to have greatly extended. 

Generally a couple of towering elms stood near each 
farmhouse of the better class, and not far aw^ay were 
apple-trees in squares. Clumps of lilacs grew by the 
front door and by the edge of the garden ; while along 
the neighboring road were rows of balloon-topped 
maples. Each homestead became conspicuous in the 
landscape, since the American elm has a stately grace 
that belongs to no other tree in northern latitudes. 

The farms lying without the valley were and still are 
poor; their plain lands sometimes bore thin crops of 
rye, and then, lying fallow, were overrun with mullein ;^ 
their undrained meadows were cold and wet, and in- 

' At the gate of wliiit had been Chateaubriand's house in Paris, many years 
aiTo, there was a large mullein in blossom, evidently regarded with admiration a.% a 
rare plant. 



FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 1 9 

fested with '' poison ivy " and skunk cabbage ; their 
hillsides rough and stony ; their pastures gray and 
brown, or "run to bushes." The neighborhood roads 
were crooked, hilly, and stony or sandy. 

The houses of prosperous farmers were neat and 
comfortable, though invariably plain ; but those of the 
poorer sort were miserable. They were generally of 
one story, always of wood, clapboarded, rarely painted, 
and dusky with weather-stain. Nature's gray is pictur- 
esque ; so are dirt and rags, in the eyes of artists ; but 
a dwelling that is gray or dingy with neglect, and rifted 
or " chinky " with dilapidation, is no more comfortable 
for being in harmony with a low-toned landscape. 

In those times the chief feature of every farmhouse 
was the central chimney, which w^as large and square, 
having a fireplace on three of its sides in as many 
rooms, the larsfest beinsf in the kitchen, as the common 
living-room was called. On that face of the chimney 
also was the opening into the cavernous brick oven, a 
"notion" which the Pilgrims may have brought over 
from Holland. Few such chimneys are now in exist- 
ence ; and the universal use of stoves, both for warmth 
and for cooking, has made the brick ovens and the vast 
fireplaces, with crane, pot-hooks, and trammels,- things 
of the past. 

At bed-time the andirons in the kitchen fireplace 
were drawn aside, and the brands and coals, having 
been piled upon the hearth, were covered thickly wdth 
ashes. When this was carefully done, enough embers 
were found in the morning to kindle a new fire ; but if 
the embers had become extinct, it was necessary to 
strike a spark with flint and steel into a box of tinder, 
and then use a splinter of wood tipped with sulphur to 



20 QUABBIN 

start a blaze. When the tinder was used up or damp, 
as sometimes happened, a boy was sent to a neighbor's, ll 
pjrhaps a quarter of a mile, to bring a live coal with a 
pair of tongs. It was a generation which had not made 
the enervating discovery of the friction match. 

Besides the table, the chest of drawers, and chairs, 
the most noticeable objects in the long kitchen were 
the spinning-wheels, — a small one for flax, getting out 
of use more than sixty years ago, and a large one for 
wool, which was often seen down (perhaps) to 1850. 

It is a pity that no artist undertook to represent the 
attitudes and movements of a well-formed and active 
damsel in the management of the great spinning-wheel. 
Such a picture may have been painted, but the writer 
never chanced to see one. Nothing in spinning de- 
mands great strength ; but there is requisite a free 
movement of the arms, an elastic pose, and a long glid- 
ing step, advancing and retreating. The country people 
said there was a " knack " in it. Diana took no such 
fascinating poses in archery. The arms of a harp- 
player, however graceful, have a limited movement. 
In lawn-tennis the action is often too violent or con- 
strained to be beautiful. Such attitudes and actions 
have been often enough attempted in art, but they are 
one and all tame beside the damsel at the great wheel. 

Look at her. She is leaning forward, lightly poised 
upon the toe of the left foot. With her left hand she 
picks up by the end a long slender roll of soft wool, 
and deftly winds the fibres upon the point of the steel 
spindle before her. Now holding it an instant with 
thumb and finger, she gives a gentle motion to the 
wheel with the wooden fingci' which she holds in her 
rijrht hand. Meanwhile, with her left hand she seizes 



FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 21 

the roll of wool at a little distance from the spindle, 
measuring with practised eye the length that will be 
required for one drawing. Then, while the hum of the 
wheel rises to a sound like the echo of wind in a storm, 
backward she steps, one, two, three, holding high the 
long yarn as it twists and quivers. Then, suddenly 
reversing the wheel, she glides forward with a long, 
even stride, and lets the yarn wind upon the swift 
spindle. Then another movement, a new pinch of the 
roll, a new turn of the w^heel, and da capo. 

The backward and forward movement, the left hand 
controlling the yarn w-hile the right governed the 
wheel, were as picturesque as any ever made " by 
nymph, by naiad, or by grace." The muscles of the 
chest and arms were in free and beautiful play, and the 
varied movements of the limbs, alert, emphatic, and 
gliding by turns, suggested enough to have fully em- 
ployed the genius of Praxiteles. 

There were also here and there among old people 
( sixty years ago ), hand-looms with treadles for weaving 
'the cloth for ordinary wear. But most of these had 
been banished to the lumber-rooms. 

The kitchen was adorned in autumn with festoons of 
dried apples and of red peppers, bunches of ears of seed- 
corn, dried bouquets of sage, savory, mint, and other 
herbs ; and about the fireplace, in racks set against the 
walls, hung crookneck squashes. A pot of blue dye 
(fortunately covered) stood in the corner of the fire- 
place. This departed with the spinning-wheels. Adjoin- 
ing the kitchen, and generally in an addition, or lean-to, 
were the cheese press and tubs, diffusing in mild weather 
the faintly sour odor of whey. There, too, were shelves, 
on which lay ripening cheeses, turned daily, and polished 
with butter and red annatto bv dilisrent hands. 



22 QUABIUN 

In ancient times few farmers had regular supplic: 
of fresh meat. Except at the autumnal pig-killing, o] 
at the slaughter of a lamb in the spring, or very rarel; 
in winter of a steer, their tables were furnished wit: 
salted beef and pork from their own cellars, and with' 
dried salt fish. To allay the irritation caused by sue 
viands, many vegetables were used ; but the mai 
dependence was pickled peppers and " cowcumbers,' 
— a dangerous indulgence, one would think, — and' 
apple-sauce. This latter preserve was wholesome and 
appetizing, but is now seldom seen ; perhaps on account 
of the scarcity of cleanly made and unfermented cider. 
The cider was boiled down almost to sirup, and pared 
and cored apples, with a few quinces for flavor, were 
slightly cooked in it ; after which the mass was poured 
into a clean barrel, and kept in a cool place. 

It will be seen that the cellar was one of the most 
important parts of a farmer's house, as it contained 
much of the winter's store. In early times a house 
rarely had stone underpinning,^ and the cellar was 
protected from frost by banking the lower part of the 
house with forest leaves, sawdust, or tan-bark. Therein 
were deposited the salt beef and pork, cabbages, potatoes, 
and other roots, in bins, a part of the supply of apples, 
and several barrels of cider in different stages of 
development. A mug fresh from the spigot was a 
provocative for palate, eyes, and nose ; its fumes 
attacked the air-passages, and the stomach soon glowed 
like a chafing-dish. But this genial stimulus was not 
enough for some hardened throats, and it was a frequent 
custom to set a mug of the oldest before the fire, with 

1 The upper tier of foundation stones which sustained the house above the 
level of the ground. 



FARMS AIVD FARM-LIFE 23 

red peppers floating in it, so as to give the cider a 
sharper prickle, and the jaded stomach a fresh thrill. 

Instead of carpets, the rooms were furnished with 
party-colored mats, braided of woollen rags. The bed- 
chambers were often partly or wholly unfinished, being 
mere divisions of a bare attic. In time of a winter's storm, 
it was not uncom.mon for boys to feel the snow falling 
on their faces as they lay in their scantily draped beds; 
for it found easy entrance, being sifted through the 
loosely shingled roof, or blown under the gaping eaves. 

In such chambers on a wintry morning the breath 
was visibly congealed, and the thickly studded points 
of shingle-nails were bristling with crystals that gleamed 
like stars overhead. 

The barn was a sure indication of a farmer's thrift. 
His house might be unpainted and out of repair without 
greatly injuring his reputation, but the neglect of his 
barn was decisive. For the barn and appendages were 
the storehouse of his crops, the stable and fold for his 
animals, and the shelter of his wagon, cart, ploughs, and 
tools. It needed but a glance to know how affairs were 
going. 

In some cases the barn was a desolation. If, further, 
the wagon was unwashed and rickety, the horse rough 
and lean, the harness clumsily patched, or tied with 
cords, the ploughs left to rust, the yard untidy and 
undrained, and fowls allowed to roost on whatever was 
handiest, it would be a natural inference that the 
farmer's shiftlessness was abetted by hot-peppered 
cider or new rum. 

In some farms the wretched management frustrated 
any kindly intentions of nature ; for the application of 
science to agriculture was all to come. The aim was 



''li 



24 QUABDIN 

to get what could be got out of the land with the least 
outlay ; to live upon the produce as far as possible ; 
and to provide money for taxes and the few absolute 
necessities by the sale of whatever could be spared. A 
fat hog, one or two calves, a few fowls or turkeys, a 
little butter and cheese, — these would bring the cash 
required. On a larger farm there could be sold grain, 
a fat ox, a colt, or firewood. With good health and 
sobriety, the conditions were not too hard, but in many 
households life was pinched and sordid. Economy is 
honorable, and may be gracious, but an enforced niggard 
liness is degrading. For those who must struggle wit 
an insoluble equation between outgo and income, book] 
have no charm, genial society is unknown, nature ha 
nothing but frowns, and the future no hope except in 
final rest from toil. 

On the more prosperous farms, life was fairer, and 
better worth living. Still, few farmers were educated 
beyond the three R's, or were in the habit of reading in 
hours of leisure, excepting the Bible and weekly 
newspaper. 

During the winter months the ordinary work was ne- 
cessarily laid by; there was nothing to be done, except 
taking care of animals and cutting wood. The needs 
of the house were readily supplied from last winter's cut- 
ting, thoroughly seasoned ; but periodically there was an 
onslaught upon some part of the "■ wood-lot " for timber. 
The cutting of trees, when resolved upon, was as 
thorough as the sweep of postmasters after the coming 
in of a new president. The scar on the hillside could 
no more be hidden than a slash on the farmer's cheek 
in shaving. Wise, conservative forestry Avas unknown 

When snow lay on the roads and woodland paths, it 



FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 25 

was easy to draw out the great logs and send them to 
mill on ox-sleds. Under the mighty loads the tracks 
30on got a crystalline polish, and sleighing-parties and 
small boys rejoiced. The choppers, though standing all 
day in snow, did not suffer from cold. In the forest 
there was no wind, and exercise kept their blood in 
active circulation. Their hands were cased in buckskin 
or woollen mittens, their bodies in loose frocks (longish 
blouses), and their feet in heavy, well-greased boots. 
Often, with the thermometer at zero, a hearty man 
ivould drop his axe to wipe the sweat from his brow. 
I The winter, too, was the time for most of the recrea- 
tions of country life : during the warmer seasons the 
bressure of w^ork left little leisure. In the winter the 
l^tock of provisions was full, and roasted apples, genial 
jbider, and mince-pies, — which never pall upon a 
kankee's appetite, — were almost constant luxuries. 
IfThen was the time for evening spehing-schools, sing- 
ing-schools, apple-paring bees, sleigh-rides, fishing 
jthrough the ice, and other country frolics. Then boys 
trapped partridges and rabbits. Then skaters went 
bkimming over rivers and ponds, swaying this way and 
l:hat, like dancers in a minuet. Then was the time for 
the great slides by moonlight down long, icy hills, — a 
hozen big sleds, one after the other, careering down at 
-ailroad speed, and sometimes overturning, so as to pile 
tialf a dozen of both sexes in a mealy drift by the way. 
Do not talk to a Yankee of '' toboggan " ! The word 
belongs to Canadians, who are welcome to it. Toboggan, 
ndeed ! As well call a Ouabbin farmer's little, scrimped 
Darlor a ''drawing-room." 

Farms were known by their owners' names, at least 
ivhen occupied long enough to give a notion of perma- 



26 QUABDIN 

ncncy, as "The Estes Place," "The Sherman Place," 
" The Deering Place." There are few names that have 
not been changed in sixty years ; and only one farm, it 
is said, remains in the possession of a descendant of 
the original settler. Each family has furnished emi- 
irrants to newer States, while some son or married 
daughter has generally kept the homestead for a time. 

In the village changes have been equally frequent. 
The builders of its houses are dead, their children are 
scattered, and strangers have taken their places. In a 
walk of a mile and a half the man of sixty years will 
not pass a single house that shelters the people whom 
he once knew. 

But a reminiscent mood has its vagaries like revery. 
Thoughts, events, and faces, long forgotten, start up in 
a hap-hazard way, and the mind is filled with flitting 
images that play like water-beetles in an endless maze. 
These pictures from memory need a frame, and the 
course of events should have some order. Perhaps, 
therefore, it is best to be done with reminiscence, and,_ 
like graver historians, begin at the beginning. 



SETTLEMENT 2/ 



CHAPTER IV 



SETTLEMENT 



It was a long time after the first westward movement 
rem the seacoast that this unpromising region was 
settled. Not until the rich alluvial lands of the Con- 
lecticut valley were taken up, and the fair hillsides east 
3f the river were covered with farms, was there any 
hought of occupying this narrow, wet valley, and the 
ugged knolls that enclosed it. The first white child 
vas born in Quabbin in 1735, and the grant of the 
and was made by the General Court in 1736. The 
settlers were for the most part Scottish Presbyterians 
"rom Ulster. Some of these were " mighty hunters " 
md wrestlers. Two of them were hatters, who lived 
and wrought in a place well known in the village. 
Furs were plenty, but polls were few ; and what are hats 
kvithout heads t The trade would seem to have been 
preposterous. Still the long bows twanged, and downy 
:orms were felted in hot water, then shaped and pressed ; 
md the surplus hats, it is to be hoped, found sale in 
3lder settlements. 

But little is known of Ouabbin's early progress. The 
increase was doubtless slow. The few Indians were 
vvanderers, — basket-makers or beggars, or both. After 
;he decline of the French power in Canada there were 
ao settlements of Indians nearer than Stockbridge, 



2S QUAE BIN 

where Jonathan Edwards went to preach after leaving 
Northampton. But Quabbin had been a favorite resort 
of red men ; for flint arrow-heads were ploughed up long 
afterward in the valley lands, and stone bowls, pestles, 
and hatchets were found on the sites of ancient wig- 
wams. The Indians who haunted the frontier a hun- 
dred years ago were vicious and degraded, but not 
without shrewdness. Said an Indian woman to a village 
housewife one day, " Will ee give me little water, or 
cider.? — for I be so hungry I dunno where to sleep 
over night." An old Indian, who had roamed the 
woods all his life, was asked what was the surest sign 
of rain. With a flicker in his beady black eyes he 
answered in his deep guttural tones, " Ee sure sign o' 
rain is when ee black all round, an' pourin' down in 'e 
middle." 

Other settlers came, some with Scottish, but more j 
and more with English names. The latter were largely * 
from the Old Colony and from towns on Cape Cod. j 
Two brothers built a grist-mill at the centre of the I 
village, and both of them, together with a neighbor, ) 
served in the Revolutionary army. The first minister, \ 
also, was a chaplain under Washington. 

The meeting-house was built in 1787, when the parish 
was organized; and the minister was settled in 1789,11 
when the French Assembly were beginning their strug- 
gle with Louis the Unhappy. The site for the meet- 
ing-house was given by the grandfather of Genera' 
Joseph Hooker, well known in our civil war. At first 
the worshippers sat on movable benches; but in 1793 
the pews formerly described were constructed, and the 
names of the purchasers, thirty in number, have been 
preserved. Probably the population of the parish did 
not exceed two hundred. 



SETTLEMENT 29 

In 1 8 14 the belfry was built, and a bell was given by 
an eccentric man, long remembered. Two years later 
the parish was incorporated as a town. 

This must suffice for history. Dates are wearisome, 
and the happenings in a small community are in no 
wise interesting. 

But there is another view. The evolution of the 
best type of a modern New Englander from the Provin- 
cial of the last century, if one could compass it, might 
be a theme worthy of a philosophic historian. And, 
even if one were not such a master as to be able to 
educe the philosophy of history, a faithful picture of 
life and manners, suggesting, it may be vaguely, the 
jl moving forces, prejudices, and whims of the old time, 
ij must have value. The life of any community is made 
I up of infinite details. One can hardly say that the 
smallest point in town management, church polity, or 
domestic economy is absolutely unimportant. Solid 
growth is never visible in the present tense. Further- 
more, generalizers are commonly falsifiers, sacrificing 
verity to epigram. Even truth lies, if she is taken too 
literally, and without consideration of the milieu. . A 
' bold sketch of the Rise of the New England Town, or 
' of the Literary Awakening, or of the Development of 
! the Seventeenth Century Puritan into the modern 
Yankee, might be brilliant writing, but would be most 
untrustworthy unless supported by a multitude of 
minute and apparently insignificant facts. 

The change that has come has been both in ideas and 
life. With the beginning of the present century the 
ideas of provincial Massachusetts were giving way. 
Theological asperity^ was softening; a man might vote 
against the ruling majority without being mobbed; and 



30 QUABBIN" 

liberty of thought was dimly recognized as something 
possible. The change was not simply a matter of dress, 
of speech, or of tone, — there was a growing refinement 
in these externals, — it was something deeper: no less 
than an overturning of old habits of thought, a general 
reform in conduct among the opponents of the state- 
church, and the establishment of society on fairer terms. 
The change began in the larger towns, the centres of in- 
fluence, and was manifested in the decline of drinking 
customs, in a revived and more tolerant church, in re- 
constructed schools, and enlightened public spirit. 

The town was the primordial cell, of which the State 
and nation are aggregations. While the political up- 
building was going on, an immense development of 
education was in progress ; the functions of the church 
and the civil power were disentangled and differentiated ; 
manufactures were placed on new foundations by dis- 
coveries in sciences and arts ; railways and telegraphs 
furnished new arteries and nerves ; the Puritan em- 
bargo on the world's literature was raised ; books mul- 
tiplied, and newspapers became as necessary as breath ; 
the horizon of thought and the scope of human interest 
grew to be as broad as the world ; the bucolic dialect 
and costume were disappearing. In short, it came to 
be possible, and it would be quite possible to-day, for 
a resident of Quabbin to be in touch with the world of 
science, to exhibit a work of art at the Paris Salon, or 
to discuss literature and history with the leaders of the 
time. This claim is potential rather than actual ; but 
admitted possibilities are something. In recent years 
Parisian critics have admired the sculpture of a son of 
Quabbin ; in the Episcopal churches the music of a 
Quabbin composer is justly admired; and among orni- 



SETTLEMENT 3 1 

thologists a native collector and observer is widely 
known. 

From Quabbin well-trodden roads lead everywhere, — 
in which respect the proverb as to Rome is reversed, — 
and thither, from the modern thought of New England, 
electric lines carry intelligence of all that men achieve, 
attempt, or admire. A hundred years ago this was 
notoriously otherwise. Equally notorious was it that 
in the great centres there was little indigenous litera- 
ture or philosophy worth transmitting to Quabbin or 
elsewhere. What, one .may ask, were the influences 
and the successive steps by which this people has been 
led out of its dull, benighted, and plodding existence } 
Quabbin is, perhaps, an instance as fair as another, 
since what has gone on in its narrow bounds has been 
going on throughout the State on a larger scale. The 
history of Quabbin, then, if one could write it, would 
be part of a general movement upon which dogmatism 
would be easy and valueless, and which will be best 
understood in a free narrative. 

The few events in Quabbin's annals are naturally 
grouped under the reigns of its successive ministers. 
Writers upon literature are in the habit of classifying it 
under the reigns of sovereigns, few of whom knew or 
cared about books, and fewer still who gave literary 
genius any countenance unless that genius happened to 
be known at court. But it is more appropriate to speak 
of the age of Shakespeare and Cervantes, of Moliere 
and Milton, of Goethe, Byron, and Balzac. 

In Quabbin the case is different, for the parish min- 
isters, from Joshua I. to Robert IV., were men of 
marked individuality, and had each an influence, of one 
sort or another, upon the development of the town. 



32 QUABBIN 

It will be remembered that about fifty years passed 
from its settlement to the ordination of the first minis- 
ter (i 736-1 789). It may be added that most of the 
important chang-es in society have taken place during 
the present century. 

The question constantly recurs, how was it that the 
sombre Puritan became a poet, romancer, inventor, 
engineer, or scientist ? and how has a people of limited 
knowledge and narrow views, without worldly ambition, 
who renounced all things for the sake of the life to 
come, and were content to toil without hope of enfran- 
chisement on earth, grown into the marvellously active M 
and versatile society of to-day ? The answers must beBj 
inferred from many observations, and, beyond doubt, " 
they will vary with different observers. We may find 
something to think of in looking at life in country and 
village homes, at town and church meetings, militia 
trainings, and popular sports ; in schools, temperance 
societies, psalmody, and current literature ; and all the 
changes will be found to be, perhaps, reciprocally causes 
and results. The movements of society are like the 
processes of nature. No one ever saw a shovelful of star- 
dust, yet, we are told, the whole round globe gets an 
appreciable coating of it every century. Who can enter 
into the spiritual evolution which began with Mistress 
Anne Bradstreet, and culminated in her descendant, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes } — or that from Priscilla Mullen 
to Longfellow } There are few instances in history of 
a transformation more complete than has been seen in 
Massachusetts ; and perhaps a side-light can be thrown 
upon it from the candlestick set in Quabbin. 



ATMOSPHERE 33 



CHAPTER V 



ATMOSPHERE 



In good old colony times, — say two centuries ago, — 
opinions upon religion and politics were practically unan- 
imous. The early settlers were homogeneous ; for idem 
sentire had been the rule of association, and, as Lieut. - 
Governor Stoughton declared, ''God had sifted three 
kingdoms " to gather them. Dissent from the "ortho- 
dox" form of Dissent was rigidly kept out of the infant 
colony ; and in later times, any incipient rebellion was 
repressed by an overpowering public sentiment. Reli- 
gious dogma was embodied in the Westminster " Shorter 
Catechism." 

In colonial politics, the aim was to make a show of 
respect to the royal authority, while the real power, 
under the charter, should rest with "the Great and 
General Court." But no, not the real power, for behind 
the magistrates and deputies were the clergy, who were 
the unquestionable rulers. 

But unanimity in faith and practice cannot be eternal 
under any form of government, and in the course of 
the eighteenth century there were cleavages in society 
past cementing. The French war brought some changes 
through the increasing prominence of military men, 
who were more in touch, with the great world than with 
the secluded zealots of the church ; but a far deeper 



34 QUABBIN 

disturbing force was the long war of the Revolution. 
In the midst of arms, it is not only law and letters that 
are silent ; conscience is often dumb. And when peace 
came, the returning soldiers brought back to their 
native hamlets new ideas, and often vicious habits as 
well. In camps and trenches, other topics were more 
discussed than fate and free will. Beyond doubt, 
soldiers were more occupied with the theories of Rous- 
seau, a man they had never heard of, but the essence 
of whose doctrines was brought to their comprehension 
by the clear and nervous phrases of the Declaration of 
Independence. " Freedom is a noble thing," said John 
Barbour, and it ennobles while it enfranchises. With 
the prospect of a free republic, there was a broadening 
of mind, and the gradually enlightened patriot soldier, 
even if unconscious of any revulsion against old doctrine 
or custom, could never again be the obedient and 
contented son of the Puritan Church he had been. 

Many of the soldiers had acquired the habits of dram- 
drinking and swearing, and in time threw off all restraint. 
It is obviously unjust to Jefferson to associate such 
vices with his political views ; but it had happened that 
the people of Massachusetts had followed the lead of 
John Adams in politics, as they had followed the heads 
of the Church in religious dogma. A Massachusetts 
Federalist prior to 1810 was almost certain to be ortho- 
dox in faith ; a church member was almost certain to be 
a Federalist. Whenever a man, from conviction, wilful- 
ness, or bad habits, left the church or the dominant par- 
ty, no half-way course was possible ; and it was generally 
the case that a Democrat was a Universalist, a Free- 
thinker, or in some way one of the ''otherwise minded." 
The wealthy, respectable, and temperate people were 



ATMOSPHERE 35 

Federalists, and supporters, if not members, of the Puri- 
tan church. Outside were Democrats, hard drinkers, and 
deists. For more than a generation the line of demar- 
cation was invariable. The hostile feeling between the 
classes deepened often to malignant hate, and was felt 
wherever men came in contact. 

The story is told that, early in the century, at an 
election in Hadley, after the ballots were counted, an 
awful rumor spread through the town hall that a 
Democratic vote had been found in the box. Murmurs 
were heard, increasing momentarily, until the moderator 
confirmed the report by announcing so many votes for 
the Federalist candidates, and one for the Democratic ; 
and then the uproar became tumultuous. Who could 
have been the ungodly and abominable creature to 
cast that ballot } No one coald guess. After the 
proceedings were over, an old man, poorly dressed, and 
mounted on a lean and furry horse, having got safely 
mto the highway, shouted back to the people, "■ It was 
I that cast that 'ere Dimmercrat vote ! " and then galloped 
away to escape a shower of stones. 

The feeling against the Democrats became more 
intense in consequence of the partiality of Jefferson for 
France. The cause of France was considered the 
cause of irreligion, and good men felt bound to protest 
against '' opening the flood-gates of infidelity." Obvi- 
ously, so long as the church as a body took a decided 
stand in politics, there could be no dispassionate con- 
sideration of public questions. These had been decided 
in advance. Something of the same spirit has survived. 
To a purely economic argument upon the tariff, no 
matter by whom made, it has been held to be a sufficient 
answer that Democrats occupied an immoral ground in 



36 QUABBIN 

regard to slavery thirty years ago. In some respects 
it was a misfortune to a man, in the last generation, to 
have been reared in a family of Democratic proclivities. 
A Democrat was a man to be distrusted and shunned. 
Even a man of genius like Hawthorne found himself 
" on the wrong side of the hedge." Society in Salem 
was almost wholly of one way of thinking, and Haw- 
thorne was made to feel his isolation. His friends were 
not of the ruling party or sect. However contented he 
may have been with his beliefs, the reprobation of the 
*' best people " must have given a deeper tinge of 
melancholy to his never too sunny nature, and added to 
the gloom that broods over his otherwise matchless 
stories. 

It is needless to say there were no Hawthornes in 
Quabbin, nor, in fact, any Democrats with too delicate 
susceptibilities ; for ignorance and hard usage had, so 
to speak, toughened their skins. As the rule of church 
and society was firm and uncompromising, the opposi- 
tion was rude and defiant. The existence of this 
recalcitrant minority was familiar enough, but the first 
divergence was well begun early in this century, and 
it is difficult to offer a suggestion as to its origin. 
Neither of the Revolutionary soldiers from Quabbin had 
any sympathy with this opposition ; and the influences 
that reared up Democrats in defiance of public opinion, 
and unbelievers among people whose life was one act 
of worship, must have come from some other district ■, 
one might as well expect to see a palm-tree growing 
on Great Quabbin, or a walrus disporting in the tepid 
water of the cove. In the course of years neighbor- 
hoods change by removals, and even sixty years ago 
some odd people had come to the town. 



I 



ATMOSPHERE 37 

There was a grave and silent man who came now 
and then to the store and to mill, but never to meeting, 
and who never sought the least intimacy. One day 
the mystery of this taciturn being was revealed. Say 
not "revealed," but whispered with horror. He was a 
deist, had been a printer in Boston, and had even 
printed Bibles, but had been led astray by infidel books. 
The tone in which the word "deist" was uttered sug- 
gested what no epithet could have conveyed. The 
man was industrious, temperate, and honest ; but the 
name of deist was a convict's brand. 

Another who never went to meeting, at least never 
to the meeting, was a self-taught mathematician, who 
was sometimes found stretched on the floor before the 
fire, working out on a slate the calculations for an eclipse. 
It was said he voted the Democratic ticket, but he had 
little to say about religion or politics, and was sobriety 
itself. He believed in "nater," and thought that to 
" du as you'd be done by " was a good enough rule of 
life. 

An old farmer, who called' himself " a Dimmercrat 
and Univarsaller " once tried to tempt a villager into 
an argument upon fore-ordination. The son of the 
latter was near by, and heard a few sentences like these : 
" Eff God ain't the author of evil, an' ain't responsible 
for the damnation of his critters, that is, ef they air to 
be damned, I sh'd like to know why ! Ef things is 
fixed, either he fixed 'em, or he stood by an' let some- 
body else fix 'em. Ef they ain't fixed, then he don't 
know what's comin', an' ain't omnishent." When this 
point was reached, the father observed his boy listening, 
and discovered that there were " chores " for him to do 
in the barn. 



38 QUABBIN 

A lawyer, who lived about three miles away, had a 
great reputation for wit and " sarse " in the justices' 
and county courts ; and though imperfectly educated, 
he was a man of ability, quite superior to any one in 
the region. He, too, was a Democrat and Universalist. 
He had a near relative in Quabbin, but there was not 
the least intercourse between them, not even a " bowing 
acquaintance ; " and their relationship was not known 
by the younger members of the Quabbin family until 
both had passed away. Still, there had never been any 
cause of quarrel, beyond the antipathy between hostile 
creeds. 

There were, now and then, rifts in the wall that 
hemmed in Quabbin ; and things to set its young people 
thinkmg. 



THE FIR^T MINISTER 39 



CHAPTER VI 

THE FIRST MINISTER 

: The ambition of the village that was growing up 
' about the gristmill at the foot of Great Quabbin had 
awakened some interest in the adjacent region ; and 
jj there were coarse but not malevolent comments upon 
\ its rising pretensions. 

I It will be remembered that there were thirty purchas- 
ers of pews in the meeting-house, and these probably 
I included more than half of the heads of families in the 
i parish ; but the parish boundaries were narrow, and 
many came to the stores, mill, and meeting, from 
beyond its limits. This was the case with many excel- 
lent people, and it was also true of a set of the most 
depraved and drunken creatures that ever infested a 
village. 

Quabbin did not become a "town" until 1816; it 

was to an outlying "parish" that the minister was 

\ called ; but the community was awake and alert, after 

\ its deliberate fashion. It had a mill to begin with, and 

I plenty of water-power for more works projected. 

The mother town was, and has always remained, one 
of the most sluggish of rural communities. It did not 
appear poverty-stricken, but limp and lifeless. One 
might have walked the length of its ample common, 
around which a dozen close-blinded houses were dozing, 



40 QUABBIN 

and not have seen a human being abroad. When a 
team passed along the sandy road it crawled so slowly 
that you thought the animals' and driver asleep, and 
moving in a dream. Even the old tavern had scarcely 
an eye open. The only life of the flat landscape was 
in the crows searching for hidden acorns by the road- 
sides or pulling up replanted corn in the fields. So 
strong was the impression of this torpor, that to look 
for any gayety there seemed as impossible as to expect 
a blossom from a broomstick. Nevertheless, it was 
averred that a stanza had once been composed there, 
an actual stanza of four lines of verse. It m'ght have 
been regarded as a lying legend had it not been for 
the evidence of the "local color." This is what the 
mockers were supposed to have said or sung : — 

" Let us go down to Puckeitown, ^ 
And see them raise the steeple ; 
There we will stay, and hear Josh pray 
To save his wicked people." 

This effort was exhausting and fatal ; as in the case of 
the aloe, which dies after its centennial blossoming, the 
unknown and inglorious poet drooped, and never rhymed 
again. 

The minister of Ouabbin, who had been a chaplain in 
the army of the Revolution, was near middle age when 
settled in 1789. His salary was fixed at seventy pounds, 
besides which the parish purchased a house and a small 
farm for him, and agreed to supply him with firewood. 
He lived to be over four-score, and, in his later years 
at least, was a picturesque figure, never forgotten by 
those who had seen him. 

1 " Puckcrtown," i.e. Quabbin. To fucker suggests a mincing facial expres- 
sion, either of vanity or disdain. 



THE FIRST MINISTER 4 1 

His white hair, long and slightly waving, fell upon 
his broad, square shoulders, and the soft folds of his 
double chin rested upon a white necktie. His full 
face (clean shaved thrice a week), his shapely, but 
rather prominent nose, and his steady blue eyes, alto- 
gether wore a look of dignity and benevolence. In 
form he was short and sturdy, but not in the least 
unwieldy. On the street he carried a silver-topped 
cane, and he wore his black silk gown not only in the 
pulpit but (in summer time) in making pastoral calls. 
He was the last of Quabbin's ministers to wear it, and 
much of the stately grace of the olden time went out 
with its flowing sleeves. It was an impressive visible 
illustration when he raised these, as if tremblingly, 
while he repeated the solemn words, " And the smoke 
of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever."^ His 
voice was bland, resonant, and measured, and deep in 
power rather than in pitch. 

He had a colleague ten years before his death, and 
as pastor enlcritus did not preach very often in the 
period covered by the recollections of a man of sixty ; 
but, in figure, face, manners, and voice, as he appeared 
at more than four-score, he would have been a good 
specimen to show of the " degeneracy of Americans." 

He had been fairly well educated for the time, although 
he had been unable to complete his collegiate course. 
Judging from his library, his reading must have been 
mainly professional, in biblical commentaries, church 
history, and polemics. Neither he nor any clergyman 
in Western Massachusetts could have regarded the 
study of general literature as other than a vain pleasure 
or an idle curiosity ; not absolutely harmful, but wholly 

1 The story is told of Dr Chalmers, but is true also of this minister. 



42 QUABBIN 

unimportant compared with the "one thing needful." 
His sermons were plain and vigorous expositions of 
Scripture, without any pretence of rhetoric, or illustra- 
tion from nature or science, or the '* sentiment " to 
which modern ears are accustomed. It was a time 
when people were nurtured and inspired by the Bible, the 
*• Pilgrim's Progress," Alleine's ''Alarm to the Uncon- 
verted," and Baxter's ''Saints' Rest;" and when the 
echoes of Jonathan Edwards' thunder had scarcely died 
out of the air. The first minister's style of speech was 
not Yankee, as that adjective is understood ; the old 
British rotund energy had survived in it. He freely used 
colloquial elisions, such as didiit, Jiaiiit, shant, etc., 
just as they are printed in the first editions of Edwards' 
works, and in many English books of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centuries, but there was no offensive 
drawl, nor any debasing of vowel tones. 

In spite of his stern theology he was kindly and 
Jinman in his intercourse with his people. He had 
been an athlete in his youth, and few men were better 
judges of a foot-race, a tug-of-war, or a jumping-match. 
He could fence also, and go through the manual of 
arms; and in the War of 1 812 he had proved to be 
the only man in the region competent to drill the 
company of artillery that went from an adjoining town 
for the defence of Boston. 

It was something to have seen and talked with a man 
who had known Lafayette, and had carried musket and 
Bible under the command of Washington. The imagi- 
nation (even of a boy) took fire, and his heart throbbed 
at the thought. 

When the old man was near his end, the neighbors, 
old and young, came, according to the primitive cus- 



THE FIRST MINISTER 43 

torn, to see how a Christian could die. They looked 
with awe upon the slow and laborious heaving of his 
powerful chest, the vacancy of his fast-dimming eyes, 
and the fitful tremor of the hands that had often rested 
on their heads. The scene was painfully protracted ; 
it was nearly a whole day after he was ( in country 
phrase) *' struck with death" before his breathing 
ceased. 

The man still living, whose hand more than once 
was clasped with that of the first minister of Quabbin, 
might well reflect what a stretch is covered by two 
lives, — the loss of Canada by the French ; the attain- 
ment of independence by the United States ; the 
French Revolution ; the meteoric career of Bonaparte, 
— Marengo, Jena, Austerlitz, Borodino, Waterloo, St. 
Helena ; the birth of literature and philosophy in Ger- 
many ; in Great Britain the appearance of Johnson, 
Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Keats, Wordsworth, 
Tennyson, and Browning ; a dawning literature in 
America ; the era of gas, railways, steamships, tele- 
graphs, evolution, the spectroscope, bacteriology ; the 
Civil War in the United States, with all that followed ; 
the sudden military prominence of Germany ; so much, 
and more, past all enumeration, in the space of two 
lives ! 

Men are prone to think their particular experiences 
unusual, but it would be difficult, probably, to name 
another period in which the events, discoveries, and 
movements were so momentous to mankind as that 
extending from the fall of Quebec to that of Richmond 
or of Metz. Little was heard in Quabbin sixty years 
ago of the far-echoing footsteps of Fate in the Old 
World. 



44 QUAE BIN 

It is necessary to look at the condition of tlie church 
and parish during this long pastorate. 

There was no interference with healthful amuse- 
ments, except in certain over-zealous families. Round- 
hall on the common in summer, and coasting on the 
hillsides, and skating on the pond in winter, were eagerly 
followed ; but the line was drawn at dancing. The 
country balls took place at the old-fashioned taverns, 
— not always free from scandal, — and were attended 
only by the worldly and irreligious. A youth of sixteen 
in Ouabbin, when he first saw people dancing to the 
sound of music, thought their capers silly ; but it 
appeared otherwise later, when he threaded his way 
through a cotillon, led by a pretty girl. 

As the minister went his rounds, everybody saluted 
him with respect and good-will ; and children were 
instructed to draw to one side of the road and make 
bows or *' kerchys " as he passed. In the minds of 
some of them this ceremony was associated with the 
approach of a floating silken robe ; and once, when the 
minister's new colleague came upon a small party 
engaged in making mud-pies, it appeared to them that 
as he wore no gown he was not entitled to a salute. 
One little urchin of four got a tingling reception at 
home for having refused to '' bow to the minister." It 
was feared the rebellion might be prophetic. 

The minister lived prudently, reared a family, mostly 
of boys, and if he did not become rich, was always 
comfortable and self-respecting. It was not the fashion 
then to cosset the pastor, — to embroider slippers for 
him, to give him "donation parties," nor send him to 
Europe for a summer vacation. 

Exchanges were infrequent, but sometimes there 



& THE FIRST MINISTER 45 

was a sermon from a veteran in service, or from a 
professor of the college not far away. D.D.'s were un- 
common, and it was then supposed that a man had to 
become a patriarch as old as Abraham before attaining 
such a dignity. 

The minister's calls, though functional in a way, 
were neighborly and social. The affairs of the church 
and parish, personal religion, and the training and 
catechising of the children, v/ere lightly touched upon in 
presence of the family, — all the members within reach 
having been summoned to meet the good man in the 
parlor. Generally the interview was closed with a brief 
prayer. Then was set out a plate of cake and a decanter 
of wine or of Santa Cruz rum. The latter was taken 
with hot water in winter, and cold in summer, and with 
two lumps of sugar. Then, with a parting word for 
each, and a gentle touch upon the heads of the chil- 
dren, the minister rustled out v/ith his silk gown, and 
went his way. 

In his pastorate of nearly half a century he was 
never involved in trouble or controversy. A man of 
keen perceptions and courage, who was given to out- 
bursts of sympathy and to upliftings of enthusiasm, 
could not have maintained such serenity in view of 
the life around him. It is true, the regular worship 
was never intermitted : the Bible was expounded, and 
its warnings and promises rehearsed ; but upon the 
majority of the people these formalities made no real 
impression, and a large number were besotted, dull, and 
boorish. There were hoary heads without crowns of 
honor. There were horses that were accustomed to 
back out from the tavern shed, and trot soberly home 
without guidance, when late at night their stupefied 



46 QUAE BIN 

masters crawled into their wagons. Brave women were 
striving to cover the family nakedness, and to put a good 
face upon despair. Modest girls had reason to shrink 
from young men whose education was acquired at the 
bar of the tavern. The schools barely lifted the chil- 
dren above illiteracy. Uncleanliness in manners and 
speech, if not universal, caused little remark. As for 
literature and science, they were not only unknown, 
but inconceivable. Did the minister see all this? Prob- 
ably he did, but for all shortcomings the only remedy 
then known was *' the stated preaching of the Word," 
as it had been from the beginning. There were 
just so 'many who would refuse the offers of grace ; 
and so many who would become slaves to appetite, 
and be content with ignorance, poverty, and degra- 
dation, as long as the supplies of rum and tobacco held 
out. 

The minister was prudent, kind, and just, and did his 
duty according to the light of his time. The era of 
active and burning sympathy, and of practical philan- 
thropy, had not dawned upon Ouabbin, nor upon the 
State. 

Is it an injustice to suggest that the scarcely veiled 
fatalism, which was then the indispensable doctrine of 
Calvinism, had something to do with this state of 
things.^ Predestination, according to hair-splitting 
theory, was not admittedly fatalism ; but it appears 
certain that the doctrine, according to which the num- 
ber of the ** elect" was foreknown, while the vast re- 
mainder of the unredeemed were left without hope, 
must have accustomed the self-contained saints to re- 
gard as inevitable the sins and woes of their less wise 
and less fortunate fellow-men. This was before philan- 



THE FIRST MINISTER 47 

thropy appeared as an active force, and before volun- 
tary societies were established to do the work for which, 
logically, the church was all-sufficient. But philan- 
thropic societies were not organized until the tension of 
fore-ordination and kindred doctrines had begun to relax. 
In this matter a surprising spectacle became visible to 
the world a few years later : no less than a total change 
of basis and of method, — a change of spirit, a new-born 
sympathy, an attempt to realize the brotherhood of 
men by mutual effort, as well as by the "appointed 
means" before relied on; while yet the creed re- 
mained untouched. No heresy was preached in Quab- 
bin or its neighborhood. The Shorter Catechism 
continued in diligent use. There was nothing positive 
to indicate that Calvin and Jonathan Edwards were net 
still the pillars of the New England church. But if 
doctrines in their essence had suffered no change, and 
if the character of the sermons, and the methods of 
work among ministers and deacons had remained what 
they were, the narrow and dull provincial Yankee of 
sixty years ago would have been a narrow Provincial 
still. In the tone and temper of theology was the key 
of the situation. 

So although New England "orthodoxy" is nominally 
what it was, practically it has been changed from pin- 
nacle to foundation-stone. The change consists in ig- 
noring certain doctrines which run counter to the sense 
of justice and the nobler instincts of mankind. From 
a lifeless formula, religion has become a practical force. 
By co-operation with lay societies, with education, and 
with schemes for social enlightenment and beneficence, 
the church regained its ascendency, with a just title to 
gratitude and reverence. 



48 QUABBIN 

Are wc to hold the venerable first minister responsi- 
ble for not establishing in Ouabbin a Total Abstinence 
Society, an Anti Slavery Society, a model school, or a 
Society for Foreign Missions? By no means. The 
time for them had not come. 






PATIENT EMILY 49 



CHAPTER VII 

PATIENT EMILY 

QuABBiN was not a fertile ground for romance. 
There were few social inequalities, clandestine mar- 
riages, or startling events. The rich men were never 
numerous, and, after the time of the three courtly 
brothers mentioned in a former chapter, there were 
few who, if faithfully drawn, would make attractive 
figures in a story. The general character, to the casual 
observer, was humdrum, and as void of prominences as 
a turnip. There was not in the town an author, wit, 
cynic, or recluse ; nor had there been a murder or a 
suicide. Such a lapse as the presence of a child unac- 
counted for did not occur five times in a century. A 
tragic or romantic scene in Quabbin would have been 
as improbable as a Spanish bull-fight. But life has both 
anxiety and charm, even for the most commonplace of 
men ; and in his own view the trials of each man 
may be as momentous as those which beset King Lear. 
Few have the power, like the rustic Yankee, to batten 
under hatches any revolt of feeling, and to walk the 
deck with an air of unconcern. The city Yankee (as 
Dr. Holmes has observed) differs from his country 
cousin chiefly in flexibility of facial muscles, and capa- 
city of varying expression. 

George Haskins was habitually ''shut up" like a 



50 QUABBIN 

mud-turtle (if a change of figure may be allowed), ant! 
the few words that escaped him came grudgingly, lik. 
coins from a miser's pocket. George had good height, 
a robust frame, and a dark complexion tinged with rose 
and was sufficiently active in movement ; but either 
heredity or Puritanic discipline had rendered him silent, 
and deliberate in action, and had made a mask of a face 
that might have been mobile and attractive. Seldom 
was a muscle relaxed about his shaven lips ; so that 
when, on rare occasions, a fit of laughter seized him, 
his features were totally upset and unrecognizable. 
The only constant sign of life was in his wily brown 
eyes. Sometimes even the eyes were motionless, like 
still pools ; and again there were slight gleams in them, 
as if microscopic gold-fish were playing in the aqueous 
humor. 

He was a well-to-do farmer, and lived in a good old- 
fashioned house sheltered by a eouple of noble elms. 
His widowed mother had the care of the house and of 
all domestic affairs. She was above medium height, 
and, though slender, had the wiry muscles, the bold 
features, the resolution, and the complexion that belong 
with the bilious temperament. Nothing escaped her 
eye. Her cheeses were renowned, and her stamp upon 
pats of golden butter made them current as coin. Yet, 
like her son, she had little to say. The purchase or 
sale of cows or other live-stock was considered and 
decided between her and George by fragments of 
phrase, and by looks and nods untranslatable by others. 
It is not to be supposed, however, that she did not keep 
up a deal of thinking of a practical sort. 

No persons were more constant at meeting than Mrs. 
Haskins and her son. They had an old-fashioned 



PATIENT EMILY 5 I 

chaise (" shay" they called it) that carried two, and no' 
more, drawn by a sedate animal called a " colt," but 
already past middle-age. The colt jogged on with due 
gravity on " Sahberdays," but could " let out," and 
throw gravel with the swiftest, when George drove in 
his wagon to store or mill. 

Mrs. Haskins was firmly grounded in Scripture, and 
could follow all the texts cited in the longest doctrinal 
sermon. She held to the views of the first minister, 
and had but a moderate opinion of his colleague. It 
was her delight to hear again and again the doctrines 
of election and reprobation, and she never considered 
a discourse complete which did not end with a repre- 
sentation of the endless woe of the finally impenitent. 
She chewed upon these dogmas, as she chewed her 
sprigs of caraway ; and her head, overtopped by a 
high-curved green silk calkhe (calash), moved slowly 
backward and forward with evident satisfaction at the 
emphatic points of the sermon. 

One day, when this linked array of doctrines had 
been brought out with unusual effect, Mrs. Haskins 
chanced to look up at the gallery, and there saw John 
Foster, a man who seldom came to meeting, and who 
was known to be far from orthodox. He was a wool- 
sorter at the mill, and had time in his solitary work to 
think. He was a pale man, with a nimbus of light hair, 
reserved in manner, blameless in life, and not in the 
least capable of making money. Content with little, 
he pleased himself with the company of his children, 
and with his few books. His horoscope for the human 
race was quite different from that which was announced 
from the pulpit. On this occasion his eldest daughter, 
Emily, was beside him in the pew, and drew all eyes 



52 QUAE BIN 

in the vicinity, especially in the choir, where many 
lively young fellows sat. 

The service ended, John Foster and his daughter 
rose to go out. "Em'ly," said he in a firm undertone, 
** I sh'U never hear thet old man agin, with his gospel 
o' hate." 

Mrs. Haskins kept her keen eyes on the pair. The 
daughter's beauty was striking, but the ideas of old 
people are fixed upon race, stock, family; and nothing 
good, in her opinion, could be inherited by the girl from 
an ungodly, freethinking father. 

George, also, was looking ; it had never occurred to 
him that the school-girl he had so often seen, with clear 
blue eyes and glossy braids of auburn hair, would blos- 
som into beauty like that. This may have been the 
substance of his thought, but not his way of expressing 
it. He much preferred to look, and say nothing. 

The chances to court a girl in Quabbin were few, 
unless the parties were intimate ; it was only at a sing- 
ing-school or a sleigh-ride that there was an oppor- 
tunity to break the ice. In approaching such a matter 
the youths went as soft-footed as if shod with Indian 
moccasins. Now, George knew that a sleigh-ride was 
in prospect, and he thought that Emily would suit him 
for a partner, at least on that occasion. How he 
managed to communicate with her was not known, and 
it was certain he would never tell. But it was done 
with due secrecy, and without breach of the proprieties 
recognized in Quabbin ; and the father's consent was 
duly given. 

One may be sure, however, that Mrs. Haskins had 
not been consulted. George went about in his usual 
way, silently making preparations, his wily brown 



PATIENT EMILY 53 

eyes downcast, so as to reveal nothing of his anticipa- 
tions to his mother. 

The appointed day came, and the party began to 
assemble in the broad space between the meeting-house 
and the new tavern. As the sleighs had no "tops," or 
hoods, the couples were in full view, and there was no 
longer any mystery about preferences. Every youth 
had the most stunning "team" he could obtain; the 
horses were groomed to a nicety, and sleighs and 
harness shone. At last the tale was complete, — some 
thirty odd, — and the chosen leader took the road, all 
following in single file. There was snow enough, well- 
trodden, and not "hubbly." The horses felt the keen, 
bracing air, and, tossing their heads, went on with 
emulous strides, excited by the movements of so many 
competitors. At the sound of the merry sleigh-bells all 
the villagers rushed to their windows. 

"My! ef thet ain't Marthy Laurence 'long 'o Hi 
Smith ! " — " An' there's Jerush Stebbins 'ith lame Joe 
I Wheeler ! " — "Lands sakes ! what on airth's she 
S wearin' that red feather fer } " — " But du yeou see that 
yaller sleigh, an' thet harness all silver.?" — "George 
! Haskins an' Em'ly Foster, ez trew's I'm alive ! Wonder 
; what his mother'll say naow ! " — " She don't mean ter 
hev no young missis a comin' inter her haouse, not ef 
I she knows it, she don't ; not 'z long ez sJic lives ! " 
' So, with "Du tell!" and "You don't say so!" and 
many more ejaculations, and with friendly nods and 
waving handkerchiefs, the people saw the long proces- 
sion glide through the village. 

The old-fashioned sleigh-bells were hollow globes of 
copper, each with a loose piece of metal inside, arranged 
like a necklace upon a leather strap. They had a deep 



54 QUABBIN 

sonority, and were chosen so as to give an approach 
to harmony ; and in sleighing-time every farmer was 
recognized from afar by a well-known tone. Horses 
were proud of them, and showed it by the way in which 
they carried their heads. No such pageant was exhib- 
ited in Ouabbin as the annual sleigh-ride, — the smart 
turnouts, the young men with fur caps and white wool- 
len comforters, the girls in bright hoods and mufflers, 
the horses generally keeping step, and the multitude of 
bells making a merry din. The ''pairing off" for such 
an occasion was generally thought prophetic. Every one 
looked on with pleasure, excepting youths who could 
not afford the expense of such an outing, and damsels 
who had not been invited. Something of heartache 
lingers behind joy, as shadows lurk behind light. 

Emily Foster, without a mother, and with a kind but 
unprosperoLis father, was for this day demurely, coyly 
content, and willing to be altogether happy. Her escort 
gave his attention at first to his horse, and both were 
absorbed in the exhilarating course over the long 
winding road. But propinquity has to be reckoned 
with. Two kindly disposed young people, warmly 
clad, packed closely in a well-cushioned sleigh, and 
protected by a buffalo-robe, inevitably become cosey ; 
then, with the sense of contact, tender, trustful, talka- 
tive ; and then, perhaps, silent ; for feeling may be 
beyond speech. It is only among the gifted beings 
created by the novelist that the "subjective" comes 
into play. George and Emily would not have attempted 
to express their "feelin's" except in simple words. 
Nor, doubtless, did it occur to them to admire the green 
pines with white background, the few russet leaves 
shivering upon the oaks, the stretch of snow-covered 



PATIENT EMILY 55 

- 
[ fields, or the softly rounded hilltops. Scenery with its 
I phrases, its sentiment, and associations, had not been 
imported. Nobody in Quabbin had heard of such a 
j thing. A flower was ''pooty," a tree might be " hahn- 
some," but what was a " landscape " } 

For a while George's talk turned upon the past 
harvest, — the yield of corn and rye, and of potatoes, 
pumpkins, and apples. After a long pause he said, 
" Ther' ain't nothin' much livelier than a sleigh-ride on 
a fine day, when ther's good comp'ny an' good teams." 

*'An' the bells ringin' all together," said his partner, 
"sound sunthin like Miss Grant's planner." 

'' But it's the comp'ny Em'ly ; I go aout in a sleigh 
'baout every day, but, when I'm alone, I don't mind 
nothin' 'baout the bells. But naow " — and without 
finishing the sentence he settled a little nearer, looked 
at the girl over his shoulder, and said, "Enjoy in' yer- 
self, Em'ly.?" 

There was a faint affirmative that sounded like a 
blissful sigh. 

" Hope 'tain't the las' time ! " said George with 
jsignificant emphasis. 

I '* I sh'll alius be pleased to go 'ith yer — ef my 
jfather an' yeour mother don't object." 
j His mother! The word struck him like a dagger, 
land he relapsed into silence. Apparently a similar 
thought possessed the girl. How was she to win that 
woman's good graces.'' Both were lost in conjectures, 
but George easily persuaded himself there would be 
time enough to bring things around. Only he was 
beginning to dread the meeting that must take place 
next morning. 

The route of a dozen miles was soon finished, and 



56 QUABBIX 

the party alighted at a tavern, where an entertainment 
had been made ready. Among thirty young men there 
is sure to be some bumpkin, and when it came the turn 
of George and Emily at the door, they saw Lije Bates 
holding a pillow-beer of oats he had brought for his 
horse, and facing the jeering hostlers. The provident 
youth was endeavoring to mask his position. 

''Wa\, you see, I don't kaer 'bout one-and-six, or two 
shillin' for hoss-feed; that ain't it; but th' ol' man (his 
father) tol' me I'd better bring 'em, 'cause bosses, some- 
times away f'm hum git pesky mean fodder, an' 're ap 
ter git distemper, er broken wind, er sunthin'." De- 
risive laughter followed him into the house. 

At the table were steaks and broiled chickens, with 
pumpkin-pies and mince-pies to follow; but the//^r^ de 
xesistcmce, was a huge dish of stewed oysters. In the 
days before railroads, to get oysters in prime condition 
at such a distance from the sea was not easy. From 
its rarity the flavor was w^onderful, transcendent. The 
oysters were cooked to a nicety, as shown by their 
daintily curled ruffles, and were seasoned and buttered 
with judgment. There was abundance for all. And 
how those healthy young people ate ! Never afterward 
would anything taste so exquisite. 

The tables were cleared. A self-taught fiddler struck 
up some dancing-tunes with spirit, and a good number 
of the merrymakers went through cotillons and contra- 
dances ; not the majority, however, for most of the 
girls were under maternal injunction; and not George 
and Emily, for he did not wish to offend his mother 
unnecessarily. 

Some fumes of principe cigars came from the bar- 
room, and there were suspicions of port-wine sangarees 



PATIENT EMILY $7 

[I (wine, hot water, sugar, and spice), but these were in 

i moderation, and confined to a few.- 

The sun had gone down, and the moon was beginning 
to diffuse its mystical light. The teams were brought 
out, and the jolly procession re-formed, to return home 
by another route. The sleigh-bells rang loud and 
clear in the still air. It was a night which conveyed 
an impression of the illimitable. 

" God makes sech nights, so white an' still, 
Fer's you can look or listen ; 
Moonlight an' snow on field an' hill. 
All silence, an' ail glisten." 

The stanza had not been written, but the moon was 
shining on New England snow-hills, and on lovers, as 
it will for ages to come. 

Like Ztklt\ George felt %is veins " all crinkly, like 
curled maple ; " but the pretty scene of Lowell's idyl did 
not follow. He was thinkinsr of his mother. But he 
pressed closely his plump partner, and she leaned upon 
lis stalwart shoulder. Mere nothings were spoken, in 
which tone and suggestion were eloquent. A well-rea- 
soned dialogue from a novel would have been absurd. 
From the weighty hints it was understood that George 
iwas to come next Sunday evening, "arter folks was 
gone to prayer-meetin'." He did not commit himself 
further; he knew his mother. 

Emily was safely landed at home before midnight, 
and found her father waiting for her. Half an hour 
ater George reached home, and after putting up his 
lorse, went into the house, where he found a good fire ; 
but his mother Had gone to bed. 

At breakfast there was a passably hostile interchange 



58 QUABBIN I 

of views, after the manner of Indian warfare that is 
carried on from behind trunks of trees. The wily 
brown eyes and the steady gray eyes glanced at each 
other across the table, then turned aside, or looked 
down ; then blazed again with sudden eloquence. The 
words of mother and son were few, but their tone was 
resfretful rather than ill-natured. 

"Might a' let yeour mother a' known." 

" 'Tain't nothin' to take a gal to a sleigh-ride." 

"Folks don't think so." 

"Folks kin mind their business." 

"But fer yeou to go a-courtin' John Foster's darter '< 
my business. He don't b'lieve in nothin'." 

"I ain't a-courtin' /'/;//." 

"The Scripter says He will visit the iniquity of the 
fathers upon the children." 

" I ain't argyin' Scriptei^' 

" Wal, yeou might hev regard fer yeour mother's 
feelin's." 

"So I hev." 

"We sh'll see." 

It was a mere skirmish, for the combatants did not 
come to close quarters ; but each had found out where 
the other stood. 

Some years passed, and all that was noticeable in the 
conduct of George Haskins was that he neglected the 
Sunday evening prayer-meetings lamentably. What 
further interviews he had with his mother, who can i 
say t People of strong will do not talk much : a v/ord 1 
and a look are. enough. Perhaps there was needed I 
only a little more openness and courage on his part; 
perhaps, knowing her convictions, and her desire to 
remain mistress in the house, the dutiful son or faint- 
hearted lover forbore to press her. 



PATIENT EMILY 59 

She was growing old, four-score at least ; her son 
was nearing forty, and Emily was no longer as fresh as 
on the day of the sleigh-ride. *' Hope deferred maketh 
the heart sick." 

John Foster, who had long been feeble, passed away. 
He had kept his word, and had gone no more to hear 
about election and reprobation ; but he had taken rather 
kindly to the new minister, although he made no move 
toward unitins; with the church. He died as he had 
lived, a gentle being, without a creed, but fully per- 
suaded of the mercy of God. Mrs. Haskins evidently 
wished to talk about his death, but her son always 
eluded her. 

And so time went on. The house was a miracle of 
neatness. The dairy was cool and sweet ; the cheeses 
were golden like harvest-moons. In all that concerned 
his comfort George had nothing to ask for. But was 
his conscience at ease ? 

Poor Emily Foster! After the death of her father 
she had the care of a brother and sister. All the girls 
of her age were married, or had accepted, with such 
resignation as was possible, the lot of old maids. She 
was cheerful in her melancholy way, — a late flowering 
but still lovely rose. Why had not her lover courage.^ 
Or had he done his utmost in vain } 

Time went on. George's Sunday evening visits were 
regularly made, but the courtship had become an old 
story in the village, and people ceased to talk about 
it. One evening Emily plucked up courage to say 
something decisive, even if it should bring about a 
rupture. The great struggle was painfully visible in 
her face. 

"■ George," she said, while her eyes brimmed with 



6o QUAE BIN 

tears, "yeou can't say I hain't ben patient all these 
years. I've gin up my youth an' every futur' hope fer 
yeour love. Seems ter me yeou hain't hed the grit ter 
meet yeour mother ez yeou orter. The Scriptur' says 
a man sh'll leave his father an' his mother, an' cleave 
unter his wife. Did yeou ever repeat tu her that verse } " 

*'No, — not 'xackly." 

" Hev yeou ever asked her what she hed ag'in me.-* 
I know she didn't like my father, but he ain't in her 
way any more." 

"No ; she wouldn't never say. She was alius offish." 

" Wal, I've a'most come ter the conclewsion that I'd 
ruther be alone, an' continner alone, than ter go on this 
way, neither merried ner single." 

"Don't talk so, Em'ly ; I'll try ag'in. But mother 
ain't well, an' I hate to cross her. It'll all come aout 
right." 

" Du yeou mean 't yeou think she ain't goin' ter live ? 
Ef that's what yeou mean by its comin' aout right, it 
ain't Christian. Much ez I love yer, I don't wanter put 
my happiness on the chance of any woman's dyin' ; I'd 
ruther the thing was ended right here." 

" No ; but, Em'ly, jest yeou wait. I'll 'gree ter bring 
ye mother's consent, or I won't ask ye to merry me." 

"Wal, on that promise I'll wait a while ; though I'm 
clear wore aout 'ith hopin' an' dreadin'." 

A few weeks later some children were picking 
berries on Great Quabbin, when suddenly they heard 
two strokes from the meeting-house bell. One stroke 
denoted the death of a man, two of a woman, and three 
of a child. The bell then began the strokes for the 
age, and the children counted. It seemed they would 
never end. Sixty was passed, then seventy, then 



M 



PATIENT EMILY 6 1 

eighty ; then one, two, three, four, five ; and there was 
silence. Eighty-five. 

When the children got home, a boy said, '' It must be 
that the bell was tollin' fer the death of Mrs. Haskins." 

"No," said Aunt Keziah ; "the bell was ringin' fer 
Em'ly Foster's weddin'." 

George had kept his word. He and his Emily were 
beside his mother's dying-bed, and they had received 
her blessing. 

This happened long ago. The patient couple are no 
more, and their children live under the shadow of the 
ancestral elms. 



62 QUAE BIN 



CHAPTER VIII 

JUDAISTIC LEANINGS 

It is a singular and perhaps unexplained fact in the 
history of Christianity, that, so long after the lapse of 
the "old dispensation," there should have re-appeared 
among the Puritans such a marked preference for the 
Old Testament Scriptures and names, and such a sym- 
pathy with the Mosaic jurisprudence and traditions. 
During the seventeenth century the minds of the Puri- 
tans, and of most British dissenters, seem to have 
been less impressed by the divinely simple Gospel 
narratives than by the dealings of God with the patri- 
archs, — by the terrible splendors of Sinai, the transla- 
tion of Enoch, the audible call of Samuel, and Elijah's 
chariot of fire. Their stern natures sympathized with 
the grandeur and awe with which the prophets and 
psalmists enveloped His throne, and with the unchange- 
able rigidity attributed to His moral government. 

In public worship at Ouabbin the Old Testament 
was drawn upon for texts of sermons, and for reading 
lessons, far oftener than the New. Prayers were elab- 
orately inlaid with the poetical phrases of David, some 
of which resembled the grovelling addresses of slaves 
to Eastern despots ; and the phrases were so constantly 
repeated that every hearer knew their sequence, as he 
knew the route to his own home. There came a time 



JUDAISTIC LEANIXGS 63 

when the people of Quabbin heard prayers to God 
marked by a tripping familiarity that would have been 
discourteous to a county judge. The unseemly levity 
and the slavish prostration might have been equally 
avoided, if care had been taken to follow the precept 
and example of Jesus: "Thus ought ye to pray." 

In discourses and exhortations, references were con- 
stantly made to the favor shown by the Creator of all 
men to "His chosen people." It is not to be supposed 
that the disciples and apostles were not reverenced, but 
there was far more heard of Moses, David, and the 
prophets. The bush that burned and was not con- 
sumed was as often in mind as the pathetic symbol of 
Christ's death and man's redemption. The sonorous 
names of Semitic warriors and kings were familiar to 
the lips of the early ministers ; the syllables of Ze-rub- 
ba-bel gurgled like water falling over stones ; Jehoiada, 
Jeroboam, Ahasuerus, Ahab, Hezekiah and Sennacherib, 
how well they were known ! But Augustine, Ambrose, 
Chrysostom, Clement, Ignatius, Irenaeus, and Polycarp, 
were never mentioned except once a year, in the course 
of a thundering attack upon the Scarlet Woman of the 
Apocalypse. 

Baptismal names showed a similar drift. Of course, 
a few old English names were represented ; but most 
children wore appellations laboriously sought out from 
the Bible ; and they were often ponderous enough to 
make the toddling wearers top-heavy. The names 
were not necessarily Hebrew; they might be Greek or 
Roman ; but they had become hallowed by being im- 
bedded in a biblical text. Aquila, Epaphras, and The- 
ophilus flourished, though less frequently than Abijah, 
Eliphaz, and Ichabod. A father who had been christ- 



64 QUABBIN 

ened Moses had three sons, Moses, Aaron, and Josiah, 
In Webster's Dictionary there is a list of Scripture 
names, and, in running them over, about one hundred 
and eighty were found that were well known in Quabbin 
and vicinity. Many were beautiful, but more were inhar- 
monious. Ridiculous associations came to be attached to 
some that were originally noble. In hearing the names 
Hosea and Ezekiel, one seldom thinks of the majestic 
prophets, but of " Hosy " the shrewd and comic hero of 
the Biglow Papers, and of '' Zekle " of the Yankee idyl. 
What young lady in modern society would willingly 
own to the name of Jemima, Jerusha, or Tabitha 1 There 
were twin sisters not many miles from Quabbin named 
Tryphena and Tryphosa. One bright-eyed matron was 
named Tirzah ; another, fair and delicate, had been 
called Zeruiah. What angelic patience must have been 
required to bear such burdens for life ! 

In common speech all names were clipped and vul- 
garized ; and among school-boys and young men the 
actual designations were "Eph," ''Bije," "Ez," ''Hi," 
*'Rast," *'Josh," ''Lije," etc. Poets must find it hard 
to fit these docked and ill-used names into pastoral 
verse; and even when the line is made, the reader is 
apt to be disgusted by some unromantic association. 
Lowell's ballad of "The Courtin' " is almost perfect in 
beauty ; and yet, in some moods, at the mention of 
"Zekle" and "Huldy " a sense of vulgar comedy comes 
in to overbear the poetic feeling. 

Oddly enough, there was never a man or boy named 
Paul in Quabbin, or in the region. Was there some 
half-conscious sympathy with the Judaistic distrust and 
dislike of the great apostle to the artistic and lettered 
world } 



J UD A I STIC LEANINGS 65 

The manner of keeping Sunday was Judaistic ; and 
its sacredness was defended as by the lightnings of 
Sinai ; it being disingenuously claimed that the substi- 
tution of Sunday for the Jewish Sabbath was made by 
Divine command. Of the blessedness of reserving in 
every week a day of rest for body and mind, and of the 
propriety and duty of maintaining the beautiful Chris- 
tian custom of making that day a glad and solemn re- 
li2:ious festival, no reflectinc^ man can have any doubt. 
But when it comes to the question of regarding the 
gathering of a few sticks on that day as a crime worthy 
of death, any man of common-sense might well pause. 

Some few persons — not more than two or three fam- 
ilies — adhered to the literal meaning of the verse in 
Genesis (mistranslated in King James's version), ''The 
evening and the morning were the first day." In the 
revised version it reads, "And there was evening, and 
there was morning, one day." Such persons began 
their preparations in the afternoon of Saturday, and 
their devotions at sundown. The children regarded 
this as an encroachment on prescriptive rights, as the 
*'Sahberday" stretched quite beyond twenty-four hours. 
When they asked on Sunday at what hour they might 
go out to play, the answer was, ''When you can see 
three stars." 

The original purpose of encompassing the first day 
of the week with the awful denunciations that once 
guarded the seventh is obvious. It was an indispensa- 
ble part of the plan for keeping the control of the peo- 
ple in the hands of the ministers. With this end in 
view, the express words and the bold example of Him 
who was Lord of the Sabbath were silently disregarded, 
or ingeniously glossed over. For a specimen of clever 



66 QUAD BIN 

juggling with the "middle term" of an implied syllo- 
gism, the reader is referred to the Shorter Catechism, 
in the part relating to the Fourth Commandment. If a 
" worldly " logician should venture upon such a falsifi- 
cation, what would not be said of him ? 

A few words upon the daily life and occupation of an 
old gentleman who lived in Quabbin sixty years ago 
will give a better idea of the prevailing tone of thought 
than any description. He became incapable of physical 
labor in middle life, and devoted himself for more than 
thirty years thereafter to reading and study. As his 
collection of books was scanty and little varied, and as 
he knew his Bible by heart, the time often hung heavy 
on his hands, and he took to writing. Had he thought 
to have written his memoirs, the book would have been 
invaluable. He was five years old when the battle of 
Bunker's Hill was fought, and remembered the hurried 
ride of the farmer, who, in shirt-sleeves and without a 
saddle, came to rouse the neighborhood (Woodstock, 
Conn.) and call for volunteers to go on with General 
Putnam ("Old Put") to fight the British at Boston. 
Of course he remembered the events of the Revolu- 
tionary war, the formation of the Constitution, and the 
war of 1 8 12. He must have had, also, a store of tradi- 
tions of the settlement of Quabbin, whither he came in 
1793. But, instead of setting down these recollections, 
he wrote sermons ! They were generally upon Hebrew 
themes, and were written merely as literary exercises, 
for he never thought of preaching. Just as if the air 
were not full of them ! Then he wrote a long rhymed 
essay upon Melchisedek ! in which he undertook to 
prove, that as this personage was styled a "priest of the 
Most High God," and was said to be "without begins 



JUDAISTIC LEANINGS. 6/ 

ning of days or end of time," he could have been no 
other than the second person of the Trinity, appearing 
in the flesh on earth in that ancient time, as he did lono- 
after in Judea. This old gentleman was the only liter- 
ary layman in town, and such was the work to which 
he devoted many years of his life ! He was a keen and 
quick-witted man, and in a literary atmosphere might 
have accomplished something. Later he enlisted in the 
anti-slavery crusade, and his energy found a practical 
field for exercise. 

The gloom which characterized the life of the Puri- 
tans and over-shadowed some generations of their 
descendants, was largely due to the prominence of Old 
Testament ideas, to the awful traits attributed by 
Hebrew writers to Jehovah, to the solemnity of their 
poetry, to the ominous "burdens" of their prophecy, 
and to their materialistic philosophy, ending in rayless 
night. While under the influence of such ideas and 
feelings, one might think Christ had died in vain. In 
time the clear effulgence of Christianity dispersed these 
shadows. 

In this chapter have been noticed only such Judaistic 
tendencies as survived in Quabbin ; but at the begin- 
ning of the two colonies on the Bay, the opinions and 
acts of the rulers in regard to liberty and equality, and 
religious toleration, as well as in regard to law, consid- 
ered as the basis of society, were broadly Jewish and 
theocratic. 



68 QUAE BIN 



CHAPTER IX 

DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 

Many of the early settlers of Ouabbin were descend- 
ants of the Pilgrims, and came from the Old Colony of 
Plymouth. In the time of its first minister there were 
heard in the outlying districts, and quite commonly in 
the village, the tones and inflections used long before by 
Governor Brewster and Captain Miles Standish. The 
quality of voice, the vowel sounds, the elisions and 
the accent, now characterized as Yankee, were heard, 
beyond doubt, though with some variations, in the 
preaching of Bunyan, the talk of Cromwell's men, and 
the debates of the Long Parliament. Of course, this 
statement is conjectural, but the known facts leave 
little doubt as to its correctness. It is probable, how- 
ever, that during an age of more ardent faith and deeper 
emotion there was a prevalent tone of voice which was 
easily turned to ridicule --as is seen in Hudibras — 
and which in more worldly times began to disappear. 

The old speech has been imitated by many writers, 
as in Lowell's " Biglow Papers," ^ in Mrs. Stowe's "Old 
Town Folks," in passages of the ''Autocrat of the 
Breakfast Table," and in stories by Trowbridge, by 
Rose Terry Cooke, and Mary E. Wilkins. Undoubt- 

1 In the introduction to the second series of the " Biglow Papers" is the most 
complete treatise extant upon this subject. 



DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 69 

edly there have been, and still are, local differences in 
the dialect, for in none of the books above cited is there 
a resemblance /;/ all respects to the speech once heard 
in Ouabbin. In most of the specimens which the world 
justly admires there has been imported something 
modern, which makes an impression like that of a 
knowing city youth masquerading in a farmer's frock. 
Such is the feeling of a native of Quabbin who recalls 
the measured, kindly, and habitually reverent tone and 
phrase used by the people he knew. It was only among 
the worldly or the openly wicked that one would have 
observed the biting shrewdness, or the bantering with 
texts of Scripture and sacred things, which have been 
attributed to the representative Yankee. Such an 
expression as 

" An' you'll hev to git up airly 
Ef you want to take in God " 

would never have been used by a Yankee in Ouabbin, 
except among the irreligious and profane. Yet the 
concluding stanzas of the ballad just referred to show 
that Hosea was animated by a noble and God-fearing 
spirit. It would not have helped the matter — in 
Quabbin — that St. Augustine, Fuller, and all the 
divines in the world, had taken similar liberties with 
the Creator. Those people co?ild not have spoken so; 
for the Great Name was never mentioned but with awe. 
All this may have been different on the seaboard. 
And it must be admitted that those godly and slow- 
speaking men, whose ways and speech are a part of the 
life of all Ouabbin's sons, would not have been half as 
amusing as the keen fellows who have figured in dialect 
story and poem. 



70 QUAE BIN 

An abiding sense of the reality of spiritual things, 
and of the nearness of the judgment-day, tempered 
every utterance. Ejaculations and passionate emphasis 
had no place ; the movement of speech was partly like 
a ploughman's measured tread, and partly like the flow 
of a gently murmuring brook. Their archaisms were 
as " nateral " as buttercups to a meadow. 

A farmer, during the Millerite craze, about 1840, said 
to the village blacksmith, in a simple, level tone that 
no types can express, "Why, Cousin Rozzell," mean- 
ing Roswell, "they du say the world is nigh about to 
come 'pon an eend." — "Wal," replied the blacksmith, 
" I guess th' airth, an' the housen tu, '11 last out your 
time an' mine." What was the notion of the end of 
temporal things, and of the nature of the unseen world, 
that lay in the mind of that man in the blue frock.? 

Familiar allusions to the powers of nature were 
regarded as sinful. There had been a tornado that 
had demolished houses, and cut a swath through a 
forest of stalwart trees in the Blue Meadow district, 
a few miles west ; and one of the farmers, whose store 
of rye had been scattered, coming to the village shortly 

after, said, " ef I don't think there's a fresh 

hand got a hold of the bellers ! " People laughed, but, on 
reflection, the speech was considered as blasphemous. 
The comparison to a pair of bellows was breezy, but 
the covert intimation touching the power of the breath 
of the Almighty was deplorable. 

If names of towns in Massachusetts furnish any deci- 
sive indication, there must have been settlers in the 
colony from every part of Great Britain. It is known 
that in a great many instances companies of immigrants 
bestowed the names of their old homes upon the new 



VJ^ESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH /I 

towns rising in the wilderness ; and, if this were not 
always the case, there are other reasons for believing 
that there was a general representation of the mother 
country in the colony. The early native population 
was the result of a fusion of the British people from 
many districts. PecuHarities from some of the rural 
counties of England, and, in less measure from Scot- 
land and Ireland, may be detected in the old colloquial 
speech, but one never hears from a native New Eng- 
lander anything resembling the pronounced or obtrusive 
dialects, as of Yorkshire, Lancashire, or Somerset; still 
less the Londoner's odious omission or misplacement of 
Ji ; although some Yankees drop the final g^ as do the 
ill-taught upper-class English people. Somerset is rep- 
resented by the Yankee's double negative, as '' I hain't 
got no dog." The Yankee's tone is more like that 
of Yorkshire. It is doubtful if there is any district 
in England where one would hear a connected sentence 
wholly in the dialect or tone of Ouabbin. The nearest 
approach to it, in the opinion of the writer, was in the 
talk of a tram-car driver and some hostlers at Moreton 
near Oxford, upon a badly-fitting collar that was galling 
one of the horses. There was, moreover, a tone of con- 
sideration quite unusual among stablemen ; a decent 
farmer in Quabbin would have spoken in much the 
same way. 

The various English dialects brought together in the 
colony remained distinct, probably, for one or two gen- 
erations ; but, after a time, attrition, usage, and sympa- 
thetic imitation, produced a new composite, which now 
appears like an original, albeit with slight local pecu- 
liarities. 

The nasal tone in New England, it is said, was caused 



72 QUAE BIN 

by the "severe climate and the prevalent catarrh ; but 
those were not the sole causes. Catarrh debases 
speech, both in quality of tone and in distinctness of 
articulation ; but the disease is more prevalent now 
than formerly, while the general speech is probably 
less nasal. Australians are said to have nasal voices, 
and they are not afflicted with catarrh. The New Eng- 
land drawl and the nasal tone were probably derived 
originally from the meeting-house and the prayer-meet- 
ings ; both defects became fixed by habit, and, of course, 
have been greatly heightened by climatic conditions. 

The virtue constantly insisted upon in the old times 
by parents and religious teachers was humility, self- 
abnegation. In repeating passages of Scripture, or of 
the Catechism, the tone was subdued. The religious 
spirit was manifested in awe and reverence, seldom in 
cheerfulness, and never in exaltation — except in such 
exaltation as was accompanied with moistened eyes 
and "tears in the voice." It was "a dying world" in 
which our fathers lived ; the expression of their ideas 
and feelings would not require the expansive lungs, nor 
heave the deep chest, of a vigorous and well-developed 
man. The noise, no less than the manner, of a burly 
fox-hunter and athlete, would be abhorrent to one 
whose soul was melted in penitence, and who in his 
daily devotions intoned in dragging minor intervals 
the prayers that he dared not address to the Dread 
Majesty of Heaven with steady eyes and manly voice. 
There was a good deacon in Ouabbin whose words, 
when he prayed, were joined, as by a singer's porta- 
mento, with ah and er, and with indescribable sounds, 
like the final hum of a nasal ?;/ and n. The words 
were hyphenated, and each sentence was a close-linked, 



D/^ESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 73 

long-drawn chain. Let such usages of speech go on 
for generations, and the infection will pervade the 
community. The child will be soothed by a nasal 
lullaby, and will drawl from the time he leaves his 
cradle. He will drawl at his lessons, and make ca- 
tarrhal yells in the playground. As a lover he will 
drawl to his mistress, and repeat love's litany through 
the nose. When his duet with her is finished, and his 
snuffy voice extinct, he will be drawn (slowly) to his 
grave, to drawl no more. 

It appears to be certain that the nasal and drawling 
tone is in a large measure the result of two and a half 
centuries of Puritan training; just as the peculiarities 
of language, including local and obsolete terms, half- 
articulated contractions, and clipping of words, are the 
result of the fusion of many illiterate British dialects. 
The bucolic speech is dying out, for school-teachers are 
uprooting it, as farmers do thistles, but the tone hangs 
on, like the scent of musk in Hosca Biglows "draw." 

Manners belong equally to mind and body. On the 
one hand is the friendly or courteous intention, and on 
the other the spontaneous movement, accompanied by 
the look of kindness or deference. 

In Ouabbin it was the custom to salute on the high- 
way or in public places ; to pass even a stranger v/ith- 
out some recognition would have been considered rude ; 
but the graceful bow and the expressive look were not 
often at conimand. Hard-working people are strong 
but not supple; ease of movement comes from lighter 
modes of exercise. And as for the friendly look, how 
could it be worn by a man whose whole life was within, 
and whose face was habitually drawn to its four corners } 
So, when two farmers met, their greeting might seem 



74 QUABBIN 

to a stranger gruff or surly, since the facial muscles 
were so inexpressive, while, in fact, they were on most j 
friendly terms. It was one of the reasons which made 
city people so disliked in Ouabbin that they never 
bowed, or "passed the time o' day." 

The chief of the minor virtues, or rules of conduct, 
was self-command. The faces of the people on the 
Lord's Day might have been cast in bronze. Except in 
the rare case of some impulsive brother, whose varying 
feelings were visible from afar, there was small change 
in the expression of a godly countenance from the time 
it was set Zionward until it returned to encounter the 
Sahber-day pork and beans. The psalms, the Scripture 
readings, the prayers, and the sermon were all heard 
with immovable solemnity, tempered, perhaps, with a 
*' half tone " of mournful penitence. 

Men of firm mould came to acquire this fixity of 
visage in permanence : it was not only on Sunday and 
at prayer-meeting, but at the store and the mill, and in 
the field. In traffic, such as swapping horses or cattle, 
it was not without its advantage ; for the dealer who 
does not show his thought to a sharp adversary is not 
taken unaware. It is, of course, an irreverent and most 
unlikely suggestion ; but if the game of poker had then 
been known, and one could conceive the enormity of 
a Puritan playing it, the impassible countenance of a 
deacon over a " full hand " or " four kins^s " would have 
puzzled and baflRed the most experienced gambler ; for 
poker is not so much a game of cards as of men. 

As before intimated, neighbors met each other sol- 
emnly, but, doubtless, with as much of good will as is 
felt by the more effusive or more courteous people of 
larger communities. This constraint was evident in 



DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 75 

the intercourse between the sexes. A steadfast look 
and a pointed word from a young man meant as much 
to an observing girl as the most elaborate compliment 
from a city beau. In such matters, what girl is not 
observing .'^ The representations of Yankee courtships 
in popular novels and stories are almost always false, if 
Ouabbin throws any light on the subject. The words 
are really few and disconnected, each pointing to sepa- 
rate vistas of thought, or indicating separate pulses of 
feeling, and each interpreted by looks, secret pressures, 
and fond breathings. Set down as they were spoken, 
they would be as unintelligible to one not "■ to the man- 
ner born " as an Aztec inscription. 

Married couples, whose life-long affection no native 
could doubt, moved as if in different though dependent 
orbits, like double stars, and never (in public view) jos- 
tled into tender familiarity. In the presence of the 
family the head of the house spoke of his wife as 
*' ]\Iarm," or ''Mother," or "Your ma;" and to others 
as "Mis' So-and-so ;" and always in a tone of distance, 
as if there were some dim mystery in the relationship. 
Years might pass, and the faithful souls would go on 
with work and worship, wearing all unconsciously the 
masks which custom had prescribed ; and the onlookers 
who did not know the secret might think them cold and 
indifferent. Strangers and Kiplings could not enter 
into this. But if there were a sudden accident, as from 
a runaway horse, a mad bull, or a falling tree ; or if there 
were a dangerous illness, or the death of a child, or 
other calamity ; then would break out the long-covered 
fires ; — then the eloquence of the heart would be heard 
from the stricken father or the bereaved mother, and 
sobs and tears would show the depth and intensity of 



^6 QUABBIN 

the love that had fused the family group into one 
golden ring. 

Lord Macaulay's well-known sketch of the Puritan, 
in his youthful and glowing essay on Milton, may have 
been artistically true for the Cromwellian period, but 
the Puritan of Quabbin (and elsewhere) was less gran- 
diose and less theatrical. In the course of nearly two 
centuries the ardors of the church furnace had abated. 
Among men there was less strain and pose in attitude, 
less amplitude and fewer figures in speech. Perhaps 
the men were more common-place, but certainly the 
spiritual temperature was cooler. 

It is probably a revolving of truisms, but it ought to 
be clearly understood that the people of Quabbin, as 
well as Yankees in general, did not wear their hearts 
upon their sleeves for critical daws to peck at. The 
springs of their conduct, their beliefs and prejudices, 
their humors and eccentricities, their homely proverbs 
and dry witticisms, are rarely comprehended by people 
who have not passed a good part of their lives among 
them. The " Biglow Papers," except in some minor 
details, is a complete mirror of Yankee life and charac- 
ter ; much of its wit is so salient that all the world 
chuckled over it ; but no reader who was not *' one of 
the family " ever really appreciated it. It is much read 
and quoted in Great Britain ; but the people know noth- 
ing of it, — no more than Englishmen know of Burns. 
The customs, the names of common objects, and the 
subsidiary vocabulary, to say nothing of merry twists 
and allusions, together form an impenetrable barrier. 

There had been changes in dress since Puritan times, 
such as the use of trowsers and braces instead of knee- 
breeches and knit hose, and the disuse of broad linen 



DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH J J 

collars and steeple-crowned hats ; but top-coats, cloaks, 
and capes defied fashion, and apparently outlasted their 
wearers. The outer garments of most old men were 
characteristic in form and color, and, like their wives, 
were taken for better or worse until death parted 
them. 

In some way there was a distinguishing mark for all 
the people. It was a double-cape coat of sheep's gray, 
or one of greenish brown with great horn buttons ; or 
it was a full, wadded, dark-blue camlet cloak, with stand- 
ing collar, fur-lined, and fastened by a copper chain and 
clasp ; whatever it was, it was peculiar and recogniz- 
able. Black was seldom worn, except by women, and 
by those in mourning. Garments were often enough 
"sad" in color, but were generally indecisive, as if 
faded and weather-beaten. It is perhaps superfluous 
to say that the tailor's art was seldom conspicuous ; 
neither symmetry nor wrinkles were of much conse- 
quence, provided the garment was easy and comfort- 
able. Before fashion brought about uniformity, there 
were strange freaks in costume. A bridegroom in 
Quabbin once came to meeting wearing a blue coat 
with brass buttons, buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, 
and wide trowsers (it was in summer), made from the 
same material as the bride's dress, — a rather lustrous 
piece of fawn-colored silk ; and the skirt rustled audibly 
against the trowsers as the pair, each carrying a flower 
and shod with kid slippers, walked up the aisle. 

The vagaries in bonnets, " scoops," and calashes were 
ingenious. There were silks, straws, chips, crapes, 
navarinos, leghorns, in endless variety. One hat comes 
to mind, of which the crown stood out straight behind 
the head, while the front was raised nearly perpendicu- 



7S QUABBIN 

lar, like a misplaced halo, its upper edge nearly a foot 
above the forehead. The intervening space was cov- 
ered with smoothly stretched satin of such a vivid red 
that it burned the eyes like a red pepper to look at it. 
The damsel's face seemed to be in the heart of a flame, 
and her features could never be recalled afterward apart 
from that iiery background. 

There was one grave and silent old man who was a 
type of a class. He was poverty-stricken but decent ; 
dingy but clean ; yet what he wore — of what material 
was his long coat, or what its color — no one could say. 
The man and his raiment were one ; nothing was more 
decided in hue than the back of a toad, yet the entity 
was sui generis, distinguishable from all others. His 
features were grotesque in ugliness, yet wore a look of 
patience, as if fate could do him no further harm. His 
ways were solitary, and on Sunday he sat by himself in 
the gallery, his quaint, bushy head — neither gray nor 
black — resting against a pilaster on the west wall, 
whereof the white paint kept an enduring impression. 

One day, in sight of all the village folk, he was car- 
ried away to the county jail, tied with a cord about his 
wrists and body — a prisoner for debt. The deputy 
sheriff not unfrequently carried away prisoners, but 
they were usually drunkards or cheats, while this old 
man was sober and harmless. There was no unwonted 
melancholy upon his face — neither anger nor tears — 
and he said not a word. For a time he was missed 
from his post in the gallery, poor old man ! 

From the beginning of the present century there 
were improvements in vehicles and tools. The old 
jolting wagons were relieved by ** thorough braces," 
leather straps supporting the body, and later by elliptic 



DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 79 

springs of steel. Chaises with bonnet-tops were affected 
by well-to-do people, as their motion was easy ; but they 
were back-breaking for horses, and have long since dis- 
appeared. Ploughs used to be made of wood, cased and' 
pointed with steel, but were supplanted by those of 
solid iron with steel lips many years ago. 

Dress and vehicles are important so far as they con- 
cern beauty and comfort, but they are not the life of a 
people. The connection with the past was in (a some- 
what softened) religious faith and practice ; in traditions 
of town and parish government ; in the usages of domes- 
tic life, and in the old and homely speech. The de- 
scendants of both Pilgrims and Puritans adhered sub- 
stantially to the ways of the fathers as they were from, 
say, 1620 onward. 

A traveller who, sixty years ago, proposed to alight 
at a farmhouse in Ouabbin, would have found conditions 
nearly the same as those which existed among people 
of the same class in old colony times, and among the 
rural English of the same period. The domestic con- 
veniences would have been such as have been described 
in a former chapter, — the great chimney and open 
fireplace, the splint-bottomed chairs, the spinning- 
wheels and loom. He would have been offered a mug 
of cider or a canakin of rum. At dinner would be 
seen a boiled leg of salt pork, or boiled ribs of salt beef, 
with mustard or horse-radish, pickles, and hot vege- 
tables ; the service of plain delft, with steel knives and 
forks, and without napkins. Rye-and-Indian bread 
would be served on a wooden trencher. Pumpkin- or 
apple-pie, doughnuts, and cheese would follow. 

If he should pass the night, and it were in winter, 
he would go up to a freezing attic, undress while stand- 



8o QUAE BIN 

ing on a braided woollen mat, and get into a feather-bed, 
which rested on a sack of straw, and that upon cords 
stretched crosswise in a solid bedstead of maple. Over 
him would be spread home-made blankets, and a blue 
woollen coverlet of a rude, checked pattern, that had 
been woven in the family loom. In the morning he 
would go down to the " sink " in the lean-to, next to 
the kitchen, fortunate if he had not to break ice in 
order to get water to wash his face and hands, or more 
fortunate if a little warm water was poured into his 
basin from the kettle swung over the kitchen-fire. 
After using vigorously the great coarse linen towel 
that hung upon a roller near by, he would be ready for 
a preparatory nipper of cider, and then for a substan- 
tial breakfast. This might be of ham and eggs, or of 
salt fish prej)ared with cream, or of bean-porridge (for 
which a ham-bone furnished the stock), or of cold corned 
beef, with hot potatoes, and usually hot bread (called 
"biscuits") resembling muffins; and with sauces, 
pickles, and other provocatives in plenty. 



( 



NOJV THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 8 1 



CHAPTER X 

HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 

There were not a great many people in Quabbin 
who were not poor, as the world considers poverty, but 
there were seldom any paupers/^ Destitute foreigners 
in Massachusetts are taken to one of the State alms- 
houses — deplorable aggregations of humanity, Each 
town in its corporate capacity is under obligation to 
support only such paupers as were born within its 
limits, or have *' acquired a settlement " therein. " Ac- 
quiring a settlement " is something not easy to explain. 
As we shall see, a woman, not being a holder of taxable 
property, might live in a town half a century and have 
no legal relation to it ; and it would be the same in the 
case of a man who had not held public office, or paid 
taxes for some consecutive years. Instances have been 
known when wily town officers have silently omitted 
from the tax-list the names of men, not being natives, 
v/hom they thought might sometime require public aid. 
The law is somewhat intricate, and need not be dwelt 
upon. 

Quabbin, like other towns, had its poor-farm, which 

1 There are very few to-day. The ahiioners, under a bequest for aiding any 
deserving poor not assisted by the town, have some difficulty in conscientiously 
distributing the annual allowance. One man to whom the bounty was lately 
offered said he didn't think he ought to take it : there must be some poorer family 
than his'n. 



S2 QUABBIN 

was town property, and was managed by some man in 
pursuance of an agreement with the Overseers of the 
l^oor, who were annually chosen by the people. When 
friendless and destitute persons, legally entitled to sup- 
port, were, in common parlance, '' flung upon the town," 
the keeper of the poor-farm provided for them in the 
house he occupied. There were a great many years 
during which the keeper and his wife had no guests. 

Two stories follow, in which the prevalent ideas upon 
charity may appear. 

AUNT KEZIAH 

It was Aunt Keziah who said the bells were ''ringin' 
for Em'ly Foster's weddin'." Poor woman ! no wed- 
ding-bells had rung for iier. She was old and com- 
fortably feeble, and had many strange "feelin's," which 
she thought it important to detail and illustrate ; but, 
though she was well past seventy, she was likely still 
to hold on for a score of years. From her movements 
one would think that her joints had been badly ad- 
justed at first, or else had got out of gear by long use. 
Her lower jaw at times had a sidewise or wabbling 
motion, like that of some ruminants ; and, when her 
chin rose and fell, the soft white skin below it seemed 
to be the flexible envelope of a bundle of cords, 
stretched and wrinkled by turns. Upon scanning her 
face attentively, there were evident traces of former 
good looks, if not of beauty. Her nose was straight, 
her forehead regular, and her blue eyes, behind a pair 
of silver-bowed " specs," had still a fine depth of color, 
although their forlorn and piteous expression was at 
first more obvious than their contour and hue. Some 
effort of imagination would be necessary to bring back 



HOW THE POOR WERE CARED EOR 2>t, 

any youthful charm to her shrivelled face and figure, 
but there was no doubt that half a century before she 
had been an attractive woman. She was neat and 
cleanly, except for the browning of her lip by snuff. 
Like all elderly women at that time, she wore a lace 
or muslin cap ; and hers was generally trimmed with 
slate-colored or black ribbons. Her dress was plain 
and poor, and her spare shoulders were covered by a 
small shawl. Needless to say, she was always accorded 
a warm corner by the fireplace. 

She was the neighborhood's aunt, everybody's Aunt 
Keziah ; and much more the aunt of those who were 
alien to her blood than of her own nephews and nieces. 
Strangers compassionately gave her shelter, when her 
kinsfolk had cast her off and appeared not to care what 
became of her. Probably she would not have been 
wholly agreeable as a permanent member of a house- 
hold, for her conversation was not generally cheerful. 
With her experiences, how could it be ? But if her 
relatives had been considerate people, with a little 
family pride, she would have been saved from the 
humiliation v/hich fell upon her. 

Her industry in knitting was remarkable. The play 
of needles in her poor, stiff-jointed fingers ceased only 
when at intervals she explored the mysterious folds of 
her dress for the snuff-box, or wiped her '' specs," 
dimmed by contact with her watery eyes. She inclined 
little to gossip, for her "subjectivity" was intense; 
her own past griefs and present ailments were of more 
importance than the affairs of neighbors. 

One day, having finished a pinch of snuff with unu- 
sual satisfaction, her face wore a beatific expression 
quite marvellous to the small boy who stood by her 



84 QUABBIN 

chair. She happened for the moment not to be knit- 
ting; her hands were partly clasped, and the thumbs 
were slowly turning over each other. She was almost 
purring. ''Aunt Keziah, what makes you take snuff ?" 
" O, sonny, it-m-rests-me." The words had a gliding 
kind of liaison^ and were enveloped in a swelling nasal 
hum. It seemed fortunate to the boy that the aunt 
could get rested on such easy terms. 

Aunt Keziah told her story to the carpenter's wife 
bit by bit. 

" I was born on the Cape, in Truro, an' lived ther till 
our fam'ly moved up here, say fifty year ago. When I 
say 'our fam'ly,' I mean my brothers an' their families, 
for father an' mother died daown to the Cape, an' was 
berried ther; an' I hadn't no sister. 

"When I was 'bout nineteen, a young feller came 
a-courtin' me, — a sailor, an' a smart feller he was. 
E'enamost all on 'em daown ther is sea-farin' men. 
Some goes long v'yages, an' some only aout ter Chaleur, 
or the Banks, a fishin' in summer. My young man 
sailed sometimes to Europe, an' sometimes 'way raound 
to Aashy. When he axed me to merry 'im, I said he 
must settle daown on land ; fer, ef he kep goin' on them 
long v'yages, his wife 'ould be same 'z a widder all her 
days. He tol' me he'd du 'z I said bimeby, but thet 
he'd got tu go one more v'yage, 'cause he'd promised, 
an', bein' fust mate, they couldn't du 'thout 'im. I felt 
dreffle bad to think of his goin' off agin, for he'd told 
me 'bout the winds an' waves, an' haow the ship some- 
times a'most stood on eend, an' sometimes rolled over 
so fur 't you'd think she wasn't never goin' to come up 
agin. Every night I dreamt of some offul hurricane, 
an' I saw Charles — that was his name — in a boat all 



HOIV THE POOR WERE CARED EOR 85 

alone on a sea that hadn't no shore ; or else a-clingin' 
tu a piece of a mast, with sharks a-steerin' raound, an' 
makin' fer to bite 'im in two. I couldn't stand it no 
haow, an' when he come agin' we had a talk. 

" Sez I, * Charles,' sez I, * the Scriptur' says, '* What 
doos et profit a man to gain the hull world an' lose his 
own soul } " An' I say, what '11 it profit you er me ef 
you airn a year's wages, an' lay yer bones on 'tother 
side o' the world, or at the bottom of the sea } Here 
ye air, on yer feet, on land, an' ef yer go ter sea yer 
don't know where ye'll be.' 

" 'Oh,' sez he, * I've alius got thru', an' I sh'll du it 
ag'in. 'Twon't be long, an' it's the las' time.' — 'O 
Charles ! ' sez I, ' sunthin' tells me 't yer can't alius 
count on luck. I've seen ye in my dreams, an' my 
heart stood still like a stone, 'twas so awful.' 

" * Naow don't you be talkin' 'bout dreams,' sez he ; 
* bad dreams is only f'm eatin' mince-pie.' 

"*I can't help it,' sez I ; ' ef you go 'way naow, I 
don't never 'xpect to see ye agin. Naow du be per- 
suaded ! ' 

" He was tender-hearted ez a man, but trew grit ez a 
sailor. I c'd see that his feelin's pulled him one way, 
while his dewty gripped him 'tother. We had a long 
talk, but 'twas pooty much the same thing over an' over. 
At last sez he, 'The wages fer this v'yage, 'ith what 
I've got in bank, '11 jest make up enough to pay fer the 
haouse of the Widder Snow, that's for sale.' 

''' It's a pooty house,' sez I, ' an' I ain't goin' to deny 
that 't 'ould suit you an' me to a turn ; but I'd rather 
live 'ith yer under a whale-boat turned up-si-daown on 
the beach, then to hev yer go on a v'yage for a pallis.' 

*' He just kinder laafed an' kinder smiled, an' looked 



S6 QUABBIN 

at me so sweet ! 'Twa'n't no use. While he looked at 
me so, I couldn't do but one thing. You know what I 
done : I hung on his neck, an' kissed him a hundred 
times. I k'n see this minnit jest how he looked: blue 
roundabaout, an' duck trowsis, black neck-han'kercher, 
low shoes, an' flat top cap. Haow his black eyes 
seemed devourin' me, praoud an' soft by turns! Ah, 
he was a man 'ith a look an' a step ; a man fer a woman 
to look twice at, an' to think abaout ever arter. Our 
partin' was pullin' heart-strings, an' when he'd gone, I 
was in a dead faint. 

'' His vessel was baound to Chiny, an' we sh'd nat- 
erally be 'thout hearin' from him fur nigh a year. But 
the year went by ; an' then month arter month there 
was nothin' but waitin' an' dreadin', no news. In two 
years the owners gin up all hope, an' I wanted ter put 
on mournin', but the folks wouldn't hear on't. What 
I suffered in them two years, nobody but God knows ! 
I wonder I'm alive. 

*' Wal, there was a storekeeper daown thar, a decent 
enough man, who'd lost his wife, an' he come an' axed 
me to be a mother to his little childern. But when I 
thought o' my Charles, my heart riz right up agin this 
man. ' Who knows,' thought I, ' ef Charles ain't naow 
on one o' them cannible islands, livin' on bananas an' 
cokernuts, or waitin' in some strange corner 'v th' airth 
for a chance to git hum!' I thanked the storekeeper 
an' sent 'im 'bout his business ; I couldn't be mother 
to any man's childern but Charley's. 

'' I hed another offer, but thet didn't take no time to 
ahnswer. So father sez to me, sez he, * Keziah, yeou'd 
better not go mournin' all yeour days. Arter I'm gone 
yeou'll need somebody to take keer o' ye. Don't throw 
'way all yeour chances. Good men air skurcc.' 



HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 8/ 

" I ahnswered kinder lightly ; — I was so baound up 
in Charles that I couldn't think of another man. 

" I might 'a had a hum o' my own to-day, instid o' 
bein' tossed about from pillar to post, like a piece 
o' worn-out furnitur'. I might 'a ben some darlin's 
mother instid of bein' everybody's aunt. Seems ef 
God oughtn't let folks come inter the world thet he 
don't mean to take better keer on. He oughtn't to 've 
gin me feelin's, jest ter torment me a while, an' then 
hev 'em dry up, like a last year's hollyhock. 

" Howsever, I'd made my bed, an' I hed to lay in 't. 
I wouldn't merry the men that wanted me, an' bimeby 
I come ter be so peaked with my sorrers, thet no man 
wuth lookin' at would 've had me. 

*' Fust mother died, then father. He hadn't much 
money, an' my brothers said, ' Let's go up in the west 
part o' the State an' buy a farm ; an' you kin live with 
us.' I let 'em do what they wanted, an' went with 'em. 
I didn't much keer fer anythin' in life. 

''They bought land, an' part on't ought ter be mine, 
but 'taint. They built a couple o' haouses, an' worked 
hard. An' I worked hard, year arter year, slavin' my- 
self fust fer Harmon an' his fam'ly, an' then fer Joe, 
who, 'z yeou know, lived alone. Ez Joe hadn't nothin' 
better to du, he took to drinkin', an' bimeby he got so 
bad 't I couldn't even go inter his haouse. Then Har- 
mon's wife died, an' he srot another. Yeou know her. 
I needn't say what she is. In which of the two haouses 
there was the most deviltry, I couldn't say. What I 
onderwent with that wife o' Harmon's I couldn't tell 
ye in a week ; an' in Joe's haouse there warnt nothiii . 
He lived like a man who pulls the clabberds off 'm the 
outside of his haouse ter burn fer ter heat the inside 
with. 



88 QUA B BIN 

''Them forty year! The time's like a night-mare 
when I think on't. I hope the Lord '11 give me credit 
for 'em when it comes to my reck'nin'. 

''When I had the rheumatiz, naow 'bove five year! 
ago, an' coukln't do nothin', Harmon's wife put him up 
ter fling me on the taown, — send me ter the poor-farm. 
I couldn't walk nor help myself more 'n a child three 
days old. But Harmon, he packed me inter the wag- 
gin, an' druv me ter the poor-farm, an' left me than 

'^'The overseers was notified, an' they come, an' sez, 
*Yeou can't stay here.' 'Wal,' sez I, ' I don't wanter 
stay here ; but, ef I s/io?ild wdint^r, I sh'd like to know 
why I can't.' ' 'Cause yeou haint no settlement in this 
taown,' sez they. ' Yeou was born daown on the Cape; 
an' ther yeour father lived an' died, an' ther's yeour 
settlement. So yeou see, ef yeou're flung on the taown, 
we sh'll hev to send ter Truro; an' the overseers ther 
'11 hev ter come ter kerry yeou off, an' take keero' yen' 
* But,' sez I, '/don't know anybody daown ter Truro ; 
it's forty year sence I was ther. I don't wanter go 
'mong strengers. It's bad enough ter go ter the poor- 
farm when yeou know the folks.' ' Wal, that's the law,' 
sez they, an' off they went, an', I 'spose, writ the letter. 
" Nex' few days I didn't du nothin' but cry. I 
couldn't eat, though Mis' Thurstin, the wife of the 
keeper, got me all the nice things she c'd think on. 

" Then come a strange man a-drivin' up tu the 
haouse, an' when he come in, sez he, ' I've come fer 
yeou.' 'Wal, I ain't goin',' sez I. ' Yes, yeou be,' sez 
he. ' S'p'osin' I won't .? ' sez I. ' Then I sh'll make 
ycr,' sez he. Then I gin a yell 't yeou might 'er heerd 
way over to the Widder Peasoe's place. I oughter ben 
ashamed, but I couldn't help it. I got the tongs an' 



HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 89 

the shovle, an' I dared that man to tech me. But my 
strength didn't hold aout. I was full o' rheumatiz, an' 
my poor hands let the shovle an' tongs drop. Then I 
dropped tu, — clean gone. Then Mis' Thurstin, she 
put me ter bed, an' Mr. Thurstin an' the strange man 
went tu the village ter git the doctor. When the 
doctor went back, arter seein' me, I've heered he made 
some talk 'bout kerryin' off a woman of my age in that 
way ; an' there was considerable stir. The man from 
Truro finally went off, 'cause Reuf Wadley and Reub 
Newman they said they'd be ahnswerable for any 
'xpense, an' that the taown 0' Truro shouldn't hev any 
damage on my 'count. 

'' Yeou know how I've lived sence. Some o' the time 
I haint lived, but jest ben distriberted in morsils raound 
the parish. I stay a couple o' weeks 'ith Reuf, — he's 
a good man even ef he's a leetle flighty, — then a 
couple with Reub. Then I come here ; then I go to 
yeour uncle's, an' then to ol' Squire Hobson's, an' so 
on. All I hope is, the Lord '11 call me afore I wear 
aout all my welcomes ; fer I ain't a-goin' tu Truro. 

"Yeou don't ketch me a talkin' hard 'bout the way 
my brothers treated me ; there's enough to du that, 
'thout me. I'm sorrv for 'em. Thev're sfittin' ter be 
old men. Harmon's older than I be, an' Joe, by his 
drinkin' ways, hez made himself actilly older'n Harmon. 

" I haint got ter trouble 'em any more, nor any that 
was willin' to see their flesh and blood carted off ter 
the poor-farm. I hope none on 'em will need sech a 
hum in their ol' days." 

Such was the story of Aunt Keziah. She continued 
to make her rounds, not like Edie Ochiltree as a 
" sturdy beggar," but as a modest friend and depend- 



90 QUABBIN 

ent. She knitted, darned, and mended, solaced and 
" rested " herself with snuff, and wiped her dim 
** specs " until her weary eyes ceased from weeping. 

THE WIDOW CARTER 

One frosty afternoon the blacksmith set his two 
sons and hired man to sawing and splitting firewood. 
P'^armers used to bring wood in lengths of four feet ; 
and people who used cooking-stoves, then recently 
introduced, had it cut in lengths of a foot before put- 
ting it away for use. 

After sundown on this day (one never said sunset) 
the smith's boys were told to bring out their sleds, and 
pack them with the neatly prepared wood ; and besides 
they loaded a pair of sleigh-runners, having a cover of 
boards (in effect the bottom part of a sleigh) and, 
between nine and ten o'clock, v/hen the hired man had 
gone, the father and sons made their way in silence 
through the village, drawing the three sleds over the 
polished road. They passed the tavern and stores and 
came near the common. 

Not even in the fulness of summer nor in many-hued 
autumn have the elms and maples of Ouabbin such an 
effect as when on a still winter's night they stand leaf- 
less under the moon, and cast their network of shadows 
upon pure and unbroken snow. The moonlight lends a 
glory to common objects. Groups of white houses and 
dark bushes seem like composed pictures ; the steeple 
becomes a marble shaft, and moving objects are like a 
succession of instantaneous photographs. 

As the party passed under the great trees, there was 
not a cloud, nor a breath of wind ; and the shadows of 
the main and lesser branches, and then of longer boughs 



HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 9 1 

and slender twigs, down to the minutest ramifications 
were imprinted on the snow as blue laccwork. The 
beauty of that blue pattern on dazzling white could 
never be forgotten. 

The boys wondered where they were going, and began 
to ask questions ; but the father, who could be peremp- 
tory if occasion required, briefly ordered them to make 
no talk, but do as they had been told. '' Poorty bright 
night," he added, "for what we've got ter dew; an' yer 
mustn't make the least mite o' noise." 

They were near the house of the Widow Carter, and 
the party stopped to reconnoitre. There were no lights 
visible in front or rear, and it was probable the inmates 
had gone to bed. The sleds were drawn into the back- 
yard without a word being spoken, and were unloaded 
under the shed without noise. The snow muffled their 
feet, and the pieces of wood were laid down gently. 
When the last sticks were taken from the old sleigh 
bottom, the boys saw a bag of meal or flour, and a few 
small packages. These were placed near the back door, 
and then, after a look at the windows, the smith and his 
sons returned home. 

"Ye see, boys," said the father, while they were on 
the road, "Widder Carter, ez long's her husband lived, 
was used ter good livin' an' good company, — 'long o' 
college folks an' city folks, an' not 'ith workin' men 
sech ez I be. Arter he died an' left her a widder, 'ith 
nothin' to live on, she's had to come daown a bit ; an' 
she's come back here where she lived ez a gal, — she 'n 
her two darters. They can't airn much a sewin', even 
ef she alius got it ter dew ; an' Mis' Faben, who's ben 
there callin', tol' me yisterdy she's afeard they hain't a 
mite o' wood nor meal. 



92 QUABBIN 

" She puts a good face on metters, the widder doos, 
an' her darters come to meetin' ez spruce ez two pine 
saphns. She wouldn't hev no cherity, not she ; but 
I've felt bad all day long, a thinkin' on her. 

" When she was a gal she used ter be often enough 
at your gran'ther's, for he was a master hand to tell 
stories an' sing ol' songs; an' a nice, bright gal she 
was. One day he wrote on his slate some vairses 'bout 
her, — the widder that is naow, Sally Cotton she was 
then, — an' she larfed, I k'n tell yeou. She called him 
an ol' beau, an' run on sech a rig that he actilly blushed. 
A lively gal she was." 

They had reached their own door, and while the 
smith's hand was on the latch, he stopped, and said in 
a serious tone, — 

''But she's praoud, y' know, the widder is; an' she'd 
feel hurt like all nater ef she sh'd know who gin her 
that air wood an' meal. Sech wimmin air techy ez net- 
tles 'bout takin' favors, speshily f'm workin' men. So 
y' air not ter tell on't, not ter anybody. An' don't ye 
ever go tor hintin', nuther, nor lookin' knowin', nor 
wistful, at her darters. When you see 'em to-morrer, 
or any day, at school, jest you act naterally, an' look ez: 
ef nothin' had happened. Some little chaps k'n tell all] 
they know, an' more tu, 'thout sayin' a word." 

Later, they were sitting by the kitchen-fire, the boys 
eating apples, and the blacksmith with his chin in his 
grimy and calloused hand; — his ''baird" of two days' 
growth anxious for the razor. Memory was bringing,; 
pictures of long-past gayety and bloom that made him 
forget present poverty and toil. The sons observed his> 
meditative air, and wondered if the widow was even 
half as pretty as her youngest daughter, Sarah. They\ 



HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 93 

thought that if the mother had resembled the favorite 
of all the village boys, the firewood and their after- 
noon's work had not been thrown away. 

The secret was kept by all concerned ; by the widow 
and her daughters from pride ; by the household of the 
blacksmith from instinctive delicacy. Once, in the 
course of a spat among the school children, when Sally 
Carter for a moment lost her temper, and said a spite- 
ful word, the eldest boy came near "splitting" upon 
her — which would have been brutal — but he recovered 
himself, remembered his father's injunction, endured 
the stinging epithet, and held his tongue. 

This slight story, sad to say, will not have any 
romantic termination. Whatever may have been the 
blacksmith's motives or memories, his heart was heart of 
oak. But it was a case of doing good by stealth under 
circumstances that were almost pathetic. For of all the 
men of his class in the villasre he was least able to do 

o 

what he did. He worked hard, saved little, and trusted 
to Providence for the future. There were people who 
could have helped the widow at her need without feel- 
ing it ; but it might not have occurred to them to treat 
her with the chivalric delicacy which seemed so natural 
to him. 

The Widow Carter, not long after, made a rich mar- 
riage, at which everybody, including the anxious con- 
tingent of old maids, heartily rejoiced. She did not 
need any more sacrifices from the humble friend of her 
youth. 

On the Sunday after her marriage she came to meet- 
ing, of course, with her husband and daughters. The 
richness of her silks and velvets, though sober in color, 
was the talk of the women of Ouabbin for at least 



94 QUABBIN 

half a dozen quilting-bees. Her demeanor was little 
changed ; since her girlish days she had always been 
reserved. The daughters were not at all lifted up ; 
there was no need ; they had always considered them- 
selves born in the purple. They looked at the black- 
smith's boys, and bowed with their eyelids. The boys 
looked at each other, and the thought of a certain 
moonlit night flitted on the glances between them. 

After service was over, and while the congregation 
was moving slowly through the vestibule, the black- 
smith chanced to pass near the riewly-married pair. 
He said simply " Good-mornin','' nodding to both, " I 
wish ye both joy." The new husband mumbled some- 
thing indistinctly, drew up the sharp corner of his 
standing collar, and looked away. The new wife with 
a painful politeness of manner, said *' It is hardly the 
time, is it, for worldly compliments, just after such a 
sermon.^ However, I thank you, and — I wish you 
well." While she spoke she looked at him as if she 
would have him remember her altered station, and his 
own, and then slowly went out, leaning on her hus- 
band's arm. But she did not fail to hear the reply, 
that might h'ave had a throb under it : '* 'Pears then 't 
our Lord wasn't right when he said 'twas lawful to du 
good on a Sahberday ! " But the blacksmith's wife 
pulled his sleeve and the scene ended. His boys 
thought that if the great lady Jiad only hwivn, she 
wouldn't have been putting on airs to their *' old 
brick " of a father. 

Sally Carter, the adored of Quabbin boys, at the age 
of twelve was round-faced, chubby, and rosy, with soft 
brown hair, and great, laughing, blue eyes. But after 
her kittenish days there was no romantic sentiment to 



I/O IV THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 95 

interfere with her practical views of life. She devel- 
oped in intellect as in physical frame, and became a 
solid, self-centered woman. Her undeniable beauty 
and talents were turned to good account in securing a 
husband and a position. At forty she was a leader in 
society, plump and stately, and with the aplomb of a 
duchess. 

It would have been something for her to remember 
in her days of splendor, if she had chanced to look out 
of her bedroom window on that moonlit night when 
the sleds were unloaded. 



g6 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XI 

CHARACTER 

A FARMER of the better class in Quabbin knew that 
his farm had been made productive by the labor of 
generations. His fathers had uprooted stumps, dug 
out or blasted bowlders, picked off loose stones, cut 
water-channels, kept down useless *' brush," and made 
more and more lines of stone wall to replace rotting 
fences ; and he followed in their steps, keeping what 
they had gained, and adding new conquests to grass or 
grain fields. He had a big barn and a comfortable 
house ; he knew the points of cattle, and drove a good 
horse. Had you asked him, he would have assured 
you that he held religion to be man's chief concern, 
and "eddication " next ; but the truth was he believed 
in Work first of all, so that every human being should 
stand in his own shoes, indebted only to his own efforts 
for his living and his place in the world. 
* That was the eternal condition and basis of charac- 
ter, without which the church, the school, and all 
other blessings would have been naught. Not that he 
ever reasoned about it, for the notion was born in him ; 
it was something as unconsidered as air, yet as vital ; 
something taken for granted, like gravitation, and, like 
that, immutable and not to be trifled with ; else, like a 
wall out of plumb, the man would come to the ground. 



CHARACTER 97 

The blessed doctrine of work, it is true, was held in 
other parts of the world. Where were workers more 
industrious than in rural France, in England, or in Scot- 
land ? Yet the New England farmer stood up in his 
simple dignity as did no other working-man on earth. 
Others toiled and saved ; others were godly and 
brotherly-affectionate ; others saw in the school the 
hope of their offspring and of the state ; but his spirit 
had attained a high serenity, and possessed an unob- 
trusive force, unknown before. 

If Carlyle in the time of his poverty had accepted 
the invitation of Emerson, and gone to live in Massa- 
chusetts, his experience would have changed the Old- 
World doctrines of his books from door-sill to ridge- 
pole. He would have seen in what way the true dignity 
of labor was possible, and that in Great Britain, for 
the overwhelming majority, it was not possible. It 
was seen long ago by Sir Henry Wotton, when he 
wrote, — 

" How happy is he born or taught 
Who serveth not another's will." 

It was felt by the Puritan leaders, when grants of 
land were made, of reasonable size, in severalty, and 
in fee-simple to all freemen ; when there was no lordly 
estate, no entail, no possessor of a '' feu," no rent- 
charge, no menial service to render, no one to look up 
to between the working owner and the blue sky. A 
man so based can no more be overturned than a 
pyramid. One needs to have been born under such 
a system to appreciate its influence on character. Few 
in Great Britain understand this, because they have 
been reared under feudal influences, and at present 



98 QUABBIN 

they look more at the economic aspect of the land 
question. 

The owners of the bulk of the land in the United 
Kingdom could be assembled in a good-sized concert- 
hall, an anomaly of more importance than any inequal- 
ity in the British constitution. In Great Britain the 
city v/arehouse and the seaside villa are said to belong 
to the occupier, but it is not a possession in fee-simple. 
The nominal owner has built upon land which was not 
sold to him, and, though he holds it in perpetuity, it is 
upon condition of a perpetual annual payment, called 
ground rent in England and feu duty in Scotland. 
That is a burden from which he can never be free, and 
which will rest upon the latest of his descendants or 
representatives. It can seldom be compounded by a 
lump sum of money, either on account of an entail, or 
because the proprietor wishes to assure to his heirs an 
income that will not be affected by vicissitudes in trade, 
or by fluctuations in the money market. Let com- 
merce, agriculture, or banking perish, the owner of the 
feu is untouched. 

British people often say to an American " We are 
as free as you, and in some things more so." But that 
is not true as to one of the prime conditions of free- 
dom, the right to own land. That is not within the 
reach of fifty men in a million. 

A similar inequality prevails in regard to taxation 
for municipal or local purposes, at least in Scotland. 
The proportion borne by landed proprietors is ridicu- 
lously small ; and in cities it is not the "superiors," nor 
the leadinsr financiers, nor the irreat merchants, who 
are burdened by taxes, but the shopkeepers, mechanics, 
and middle-class people. 



CHARACTER 99 

To recount the inequalities of British municipal taxa- 
tion would appear to be wandering far from the story 
of Ouabbin ; but, in considering the foundations of 
character in New England, it is necessary to contrast 
the condition of other people of our race who are 
nominally free, but who can never be really so while 
the eldest son robs his brothers and sisters, and while 
landowners and farmers are distinct classes by law or 
heredity. The rent of farms in Great Britain is 
adjusted according to the product of the soil under 
good management. The " superior " runs no risk of 
falling prices, of fires in ricks, or of tempest, flood, or 
pestilence ; and any one of these calamities may ruin 
the tenant. The industrious and saving farmer knows 
that his labor and self-denial are not primarily for him- 
self, but for his "superior." He may, by the exercise 
of patience and other Christian virtues, come to a state 
of resignation and even of content, but he will never be 
the man he might be if he toiled on his own land. 
For the sake of character, better the poorest of farms 
with independence than the most productive with 
servility. 

What has been said of farmers in Ouabbin was true, 
though perhaps in less degree, of mechanics. The 
smith or the joiner who owned his house and shop was 
on equal terms with the farmer, his customer, and 
could hold up his head with the best. The families of 
mechanics were quite as intelligent, because more 
given to reading. All these sturdy workers would 
have been worth the study of an observer like Carlyle ; 
for he w^ould have seen that there were attitudes more 
manly than dependence upon the great ; and that con- 
sideration and condescension on the part of superiors, 



100 QUAE BIN 

so much insisted upon in Past and Present, would be 
superfluous if there were free dealings in land, and if 
the effects of feudalism in society could be got rid of. 
It is not cosseting, nor soup kitchens, nor the encoura- 
ging smiles of Lady Bountiful, that Hodge needs, so 
much as to be allowed to stand up. 

** An' that's the old Ainerikin idee, 
To make a man a Man, an' let him be." 

The fact of personal independence is momentous and 
far-reaching. Manhood is the first of values. It does 
not matter that lands are more profitably worked in 
Great Britain ; nor would it matter if it were true that 
tenants realize more from hired farms than they would 
from land of their own. A man, if he chooses, has a 
right to earn less; and, whatever he does, he is richer 
in his poverty, if there is no one over him to w^hom he 
must hnit. 

The independence of citizens in towns like Ouabbin 
was further assured by having a share in the manage- 
ment of town and parish affairs. In theory the right 
of a tenant-farmer in Great Britain may be similar, but 
in practice it is wholly otherwise. Public business is 
entirely out of the control of the people, and perhaps 
wisely so in the present state of things. The men of 
Quabbin formed a little democracy. In the thought 
of Daniel Webster (bettered afterward by Theodore 
Parker, and then repeated by Abraham Lincoln), it was 
"a government of the people, for the people, and by 
the people." 

Having: seen on what ^rround these men of Ouabbin 
stood, and what manner of spirit was theirs, we can un- 
derstand the invincibility of the *' embattled farmers " 



CHARACTER lOI 

during the war for independence, and appreciate their 
tenacity of patriotism, and of the undying memories 
bequeathed from sire to son. We see that Quabbin, 
and towns like it, have been nurseries of manly virtues, 
and that, with this basis of character, men's accent and 
gait are matters of small consequence. We can be 
patient with a ploughman's walk, and with his drawling 
equanimity, which a rain of grape-shot could not hurry; 
and we need not mind much the texture and slouchi- 
ness of a frock, when the wearer is sober, self-respect- 
ing, and just. The man who makes us smile with his 
naive look and tone when he ejaculates " Du tell ! " '' I 
want ter know ! " and " Yeou don't say so ! " may be 
one who governs his house wisely, educates his chil- 
dren, goes to meeting and enjoys a sermon with 
"meat" in it, and is a good neighbor, and (according 
to his light) a public-spirited citizen. 

The immediate descendants of the Puritans were not 
consciously unsocial, but their serious views, self-denial, 
and determination made them appear so; and the iso- 
lation of families, all bound to unremitting labor by the 
necessities of an unproductive soil and a rigorous cli- 
mate, was in marked contrast with the friendly famili- 
arity which prevailed in Virginia and in other colonies, 
where fox-hunting, racing, and merry-makings enlivened 
every rural neighborhood. 

In New England the home, the church, the school, 
and the town-meeting formed the whole of life, with its 
duties, its training, its pleasures, and its hopes. The 
head of the family was much alone ; and, while he 
toiled upon the bleak hillside, or wrought in the work- 
shop, his thoughts were upon the last sermon, or upon 
some other grave topic. Although without scholastic 



I02 QUAE BIN 

training, he was generally able to take a firm hold of 
Calvinistic theology, and with the aid of faith to 
survey its related doctrines with a certain sense of 
mastery. 

In geometry the mind is satisfied when the Q. E. D. 
is understandingly reached ; there is no need to review 
the steps of reasoning in a proposition that has been 
fully wrought out ; but the Puritan was never weary of 
repeated demonstrations of Calvinistic theorems; they 
were the objects of daily contemplation, — his meat and 
drink and solemn joy. 

Some were continually probing themselves, with a 
restless and almost agonizing anxiety, to know if they 
could really acquiesce with the Divine decree, and still 
praise God, if it should happen that by that decree they 
were included among the damned. 

They did not relish mere exhortations, or vague gen- 
eralities in sermons; they hungered for the deep things 
of God, and loved to ponder upon the awful obscurities 
of the Divine purposes. They admired the preaching 
which taxed their faculties to the utmost, and which 
led them to rest on faith, and to wait for the light of 
eternity to make clear the problems that confounded 
human reason. 

So, chief among the elements of character and train- 
ing, must be reckoned the influence of a stern theology, 
which, in silence and loneliness, sobered thought, stiff- 
ened the mental fibre, and set up Duty above every 
personal advantage. If the sons of New England have 
any one great heritage, it is this. 

Along with grave qualities there were some which 
were provincial and parochial, — whimseys that were as 
firmly rooted as the others ; so that the Quabbin man 



CHARACTER 103 

was an odd bundle of high convictions, with grotesque 
notions and prejudices. 

The Ouabbin man of the better sort believed the 
Bible to be inspired, in mass and in detail, from Gene- 
sis to Revelation ; that Unitarianism and Universalism 
were doctrines of devils ; that Methodists and Baptists 
were well-meaning people, but blown about by winds of 
doctrine ; that the cross was a symbol of popery, and 
Christmas a superstitious observance ; that the Feder- 
alists inherited the wisdom and virtues of Washington, 
and that John Adams and his son John Quincy were 
his worthy successors ; that Jefferson was the father of 
infidelity, and that, if every Democrat was not a profane 
rascal, at least every profane rascal was a Democrat ; 
that Daniel Webster was the greatest orator of any age 
C' He kin talk, this Daniel Webster ; he kin talk, I tell 
ycou ; lie kin ") ; that Napoleon Bonaparte was ex- 
pressly pointed out (by a calculation of heads and 
horns) as a monster of some kind in the Apocalypse ; 
that Dr. Grandley was the greatest surgeon and physi- 
cian living; that in a great city there were few honest 
men and fewer virtuous women (to say that a woman 
had ''city ways " was to intimate something greatly to 
her discredit) ; that any man possessed of more than 
twenty thousand dollars had come by it dishonestly 
(" It stands to reason that he couldn't 'ev made it by 
his own hands ; an', ef other folks aimed it, it ain't 
hisn. Ef he's ben honest, an' gi'n all their deau, he 
couldn't hev no sech pile o' money ") ; that a bank was 
a kind of thing he did not understand (" Ef it lends 
money at six per cent, how du the sheerholders git 
twelve.'* that's what I sh'd like terknow"); that the 
young men to be helped in ''gittin' college larnin' '* 



I04 QUABBTN 

were those intending to preach the gospel ('' Ez fcr 
hclpin' on young lawyers, let Satan take care of his 
own ! ") ; that a lawyer was necessarily a dissembler 
and cheat ; that " old-fashioned schoolin' " was good 
enough ; that a man who wore a beard was a Jew, or a 
dirty fellow, or both ; that kid gloves were worn only 
by dandies (" Ef it's cold, a good woollen mitten's good 
enough fer mc !")\ that the tune *' China" ("Why do 
we mourn departing friends ? ") was divinely appointed 
to be sung at funerals, and that '' Coronation " (" All 
hail the power of Jesus' name ") will be sung in heaven ; 
that the good old days of samp, hulled corn, bean 
porridge, barrelled apple-sauce, apprenticeship, honest 
work, and homespun clothes were gone, never to return. 
In natural philosophy, the things he did not know, and 
those he thought he knew, but were "not so," were so 
many that to set him right would have required an 
enlarged and annotated edition of Sir Thomas Browne 
on "Vulgar Errors." It must (regretfully) be added 
that his necessary economy too frequently trenched upon 
sordid meanness. 

Two co-existing institutions, the church and the 
town-meeting, were shaping character and creating the 
body politic, and were, to some extent, at cross pur- 
poses. For a long time the church had the upper 
hand, but, meanwhile, political education was going on 
by means of the town-meeting. When the authority 
of the church in civil affairs came to an end, the people 
were ready to govern themselves. It is freely admitted 
that theocratic rule put back civilization and an enlight- 
ened Christianity for more than a century, but the time 
was not wholly lost. In Great Britain there was no 



i 






CHARACTER 105 

Puritan rule, —although Scotland had something very 
much like it, — but there were no town-meetings, and 
therefore no general and efficient political education. 
Will it be pretended that artisans and agricultural 
laborers in Great Britain are to be compared in any 
respect with mechanics and farmers in New England ? 
If Parliament had set up '^ Village Councils " two^'and a 
half centuries ago, the case might have been dif- 
ferent. 

The institutions of New England have been often 
and ably discussed, and it would be quite beyond the 
purpose of this book to dwell upon their history or de- 
velopment ; we are looking more at concrete results 
than abstract theories. And it does not matter greatly, 
— from Ouabbin's point of view, —whether those insti- 
tutions were developed from British models and ideas, 
as has been generally held, or whether they were 
brought by the Pilgrims from Holland, as has been 
recently argued by an able and learned writer.^ The 
differences between the population of a typical English 
county and that of a group of Massachusetts towns 
covering a similar space are striking enough ; whether 
those differences are mainly the results of evolution 
under new conditions, or have sprung from the experi- 
ence gained by our ancestors in another land, is not 
important in this simple sketch. 

As to the character of the New England people, he 
who knows its complexities best will be most chary in 
generalization. It was reserved for a clever story-writer 
from abroad to give an authoritative exposition after a 
residence of a few weeks. The subject which had 

1 " The Puritan in Holland, England, and America," by Douglas Campbell, 



I06 QUABBIN 

tasked the powers of life-long observers like Haw- 
thorne, Mrs. Stowe, Lowell, and Holmes, appears to 
have been a mere trifle to the oracular young man from 
India. British editors and readers who have exulted in 
his swift and condign judgment are to be congratu- 
lated. 



THE QUILTIN' 107 



CHAPTER XII 

THE QUILTIn' 

Co-operation is a modern word, but the thing is as 
old as civilization. The benefit of association is at once 
recognized in a new country, w^here work has to be done 
for which the labor of one person, or of a family, would 
not suffice. In felling trees, co-operation takes the 
form of log-rolling, in which the neighborhood joins ; 
and one man's land having been cleared, he in turn 
assists all who have worked for him. 

The metaphorical use of log-rolling in politics is 
obvious, but it is often employed in British news- 
papers with vague knowledge of its meaning.^ 

Co-operation among the women of Quabbin took the 
form of an afternoon quilting followed by tea. Before 
woven white coverlets were introduced, and while 
woollen blankets were dear, a part of the bed covers 
were " quilts." 

A quilt was made by placing a layer of soft cotton 
wadding between two sheets of cloth ; an upper one 
with desis^ns in color, and an under one as a lining;. 

1 So in Great Britain one reads of " Bunkum " instead of " Buncombe," the 
name of the county in North Carolina where lived the "spread-eagle" orator, for 
whose flights the term was invented. So, one reads of " jerrymander " instead 
of " Gerrymander," the editor being ignorant that the word was derived from the 
name of Elbridge Gerry (G hard) whose device for a tricky division of the State 
into electoral districts has given him an unenviable immortality. But to spell his 
name, and he a governor of Massachusetts, with a little/ is rather too much ! 



Io8 QUAE BIX 

The stitching, which went through and attached the 
two surfaces, was done in an elaborate pattern of 
needlework. The face of the quilt was composed of 
pieces of printed cotton (calico) of all colors (ara- 
besques or flowers, or what not) cut in squares, loz- 
enges, rhomboids, hexagons, and the like, and arranged 
and sewed together in a way to make a symmetrical 
pattern, or group of patterns, as to form, and a regular 
distribution of colors. 

But artistic perception, and the power of creating 
pleasing effects with heterogeneous materials, are not 
given to all ; and some quilts were as tawdry and gro- 
tesque as the edifices that children build with colored 
blocks. The choice of materials was generally limited 
to the skirts of the calico gowns worn by the female 
members of the family since the last quilting. 

Laying out the plan, and sewing together the pieces, 
occupied the women and children in odd hours for 
months. When the patchwork was completed, it was 
laid upon the destined lining, with sheets of wadding 
between, and the combined edges were basted. Long 
bars of wood — the "quiltin' frame" — were placed at 
the four sides ; the quilt was attached to the bars by 
stout thread, and the bars fastened at the corners with 
listing ; then the whole was raised upon the backs of 
chairs, one at each corner, to serve as trestles. 

Around the quilt, so stretched out at a convenient 
height, a dozen (more or less) might be at work, seated 
at the four sides, all following in their stitching the pat- 
tern laid down. The pattern was fanciful, — in zig- 
zags, parallels, octagons, or concentric circles. 

When the width of a foot was completed on any 
side, so much of the quilt was rolled upon the bar ; 



THE QUILTIN' 109 

and as the work went on, the visible part of the quilt 
diminished, like Balzac's Peau de CJiagrin. 

A more favorable arrangement for a social afternoon 
could hardly be imagined. The work demanded no 
thought on the part of those who were familiar with it ; 
and the women, all facing inward as at a square table, 
and all in best gowns, cambric collars, and lace caps, 
could gossip to their hearts' content. 

Mrs. Kempton had invited some neighbors to a quilt- 
ing, and, together, there was an even dozen of them. 
Mrs. Kempton was tall, slender, and dark, and had fine, 
expressive eyes. She was quick in speech, sensitive, 
and at times appeared restless. She was oppressed by 
the dead weight of the moral atmosphere of Quabbin. 
The rule of society was absolute. There were only 
two sets, — saints and sinners. For a church-member 
there was an endless number of unwritten laws, not to 
be transgressed. Mrs. Kempton did not transgress, 
but seemed always on the verge of doing it. She was 
like a dancer in leaden shoes, a tomboy in a nunnery ; 
and sometimes she feared she was an intruder in the 
church, so little sympathy she felt for the unnatural 
gloom that overshadowed everybody. A better-hearted 
or more exemplary woman never existed ; but she had 
lively faculties, a sense of the ridiculous, and longed 
now and then for a frolic. 

There is a kind of freemasonry between those who 
find society a tyranny, and a village a prison. Those 
who wear the invisible ball-and-chain know each other. 
Three of Mrs. Kempton's friends shared, in different 
degrees, her qualities and sympathies, — Mrs. Stone, the 
carpenter's wife ; Mrs. Hale, whose husband owned the 
saw-mill ; and Almira Marble, spinster. Whenever 
these women met there was sure to be a merry time. 



I lO QUAE BIN 

The quilting-frame so nearly filled the sitting-room 
that there was little space behind the chairs. The rays 
of the September sun streamed into the west window, 
and without the air was filled with reflections of yellow 
and crimson from the wealth of maple leaves about the 
house. 

Among the women there had been the usual compli- 
mentary scrutiny of caps and ribbons, and the exchange 
of information in regard to measles and whooping- 
cough ; and, these topics having been exhausted, there 
was a pause. 

After the needles had gleamed a while in silence, 
Mrs. Fenton, a stout and dull-looking woman, broke out 
with : — 

"■ Did any o' yeou hear 'bout the bear } " ^ 

Several, speaking at once, said, " Where } " " When 
was it V " Whose bear } " 

*'Why," replied Mrs. Fenton, '''twas a black bear, 
up'n Cap'n Davis's pastur', on the nor' west hill, week 
'fore last." 

Said Mrs. Stone, "Why, Mis' Fenton, there ain't ben 
a bear in nor abaout Quabbin for forty year! There's 
bears up'n Vermont, — my mother shot one 't her back 
door, — but they don't come daown here." 

**The Rickett childern 've seen 'im, just afore dusk," 
replied Mrs. Fenton. 

''Now we know 'taint trew," said Mrs. Kempton. 

'' The Rickett childern can't tell the truth ef they 
would," said Miss Marble. 

"And their parents wouldn't ef they could," added 
Mrs. Hale. 

1 Quabbin women, with very few exceptions, spoke in dialect, but one ncrer 
heard " bear " pronounced *' bar." That is a Western usage. 



THE QUILTIN' III 

**What was the bear doin' ?" asked Mrs. Stone. 

*' They thought he was braowsin' on the berries." 

*' Most likely 'twas the minister out a-blueberrin' in 
his black gown," suggested Mrs. Kempton. 

''Couldn't tell him f'm a bear — in the dark," said 
Mrs. Stone, laughing. 

" Yeou sh'd be 'shamed ter liken the minister tu a 
bear," said Mrs. Fenton, while a sudden cloud of solem- 
nity settled upon her face. 

"P'r'aps 'twas Sat'n a-praowlin' raound," said old Mrs. 
Aldrich, with a shiver. 

*' O pshaw ! " said several voices at once. 

" Wal, yeou may shazvs much ez yeou please," said 
Mrs. Aldrich ; " but my granny told me that when she 
was a gal in Brookfield, she was a-ridin' hossback over 
ter the rorth perrish of a dark night, an' she see a bear 
runnin' "long side of her in the road " — 

Here she was interrupted by two voices : — 

*' Wcl, there were bears in that day." 

" Ef 'twas dark, heow did she know 'twan't a dog .-^ " 

"Jest you hark," said Mrs. Aldrich. " She went on, 
a-whippin' up her boss, an' arter a while she felt rather 
queer, an' her flesh seemed ter creep and cringe, kinder 
like goose-flesh ; an' sech a feelin' at the pit o' her 
stummick ! An' then she looked behind her. She heel 
ter look behind her; she couldn't help it. An' what 
d'ye think she saw } That ere bear or some black 
critter was on her saddle-cloth, a sittin' up on his hind 
parts, an' his black nozzle just at her ear." 

"Did he say anything imperlite .^ " asked Mrs. 
Kempton with sweet gravity. 

" Naow, yeou're not to poke fun," said Mrs. Aldrich, 
looking over her spectacles. " Did the bear say any- 
thing, indeed ! I wonder at yeou, I du ! " 



112 QUAE BIN 

" Wal, the horse mightn't 've liked it, unless 'twas a 
very little bear," said Mrs. Hale. 

. Mrs. Aldrich paid no attention to the interruption, 
and went on: "She jest said the Lord's Prayer, and 
she felt the eritter tremble ; an' when she come ter the 
words, * Deliver us f'm evil,' it jumped off, an' run 
away." 

''That ought to be in a Sunday-school book," said 
Miss Marble. 

" Wal," said Mrs. Thurstin, an ally of Mrs. Aldrich, 
" there's strange things happen in this world, laaf ez 
yeoLi will. Naow, yeou know the tahvern-keeper died 
arter he was kicked by a boss. Wal, Mis' Shumway, 
who's a woman o' trewth, tol' vie thet she was ther' 
washin' an' scrubbin', an' thet an ol' clock that hedn't 
ben runnin' fer a year suddenly broke out a strikin'. 
They caoitntcd, an' it struck forty-four ! Jest the dyin' 
man's age." 

" Was it the clock's strikin' that killed the man } " 
asked Mrs. Hale ; " I thought you said the kick of the 
horse killed him." 

"Wish you c'd a seen Mis' Shumway's eyes when 
she told me the story," continued Mrs. Thurstin. 
" They stuck aout like two moons." 

" No matter 'bout her eyes ; they go moonin' easy," 
said Mrs. Stone. "Somebody who had eyes should a 
.looked arter the clock." 

"Yes," added Miss Marble, "I've heard there was 
a clock pedler 'bout the tavern at that time, and he 
may have been playin' a joke." 

" But haow did it strike forty-four, Almiry } Tell me 
tJiat^' said Mrs. Aldrich. " A clock emit strike more'n 
twelve times. 'Twas agin nater for it to strike forty- 
four." 



THE QUILTIN' II3 

'' Ef the wheels air wood," said Mrs. Stone, ''a man 
has only to cut off some of the little teeth or cogs, 
and then, when it begins strikin', 'twill keep on till it 
ruas down." 

"■ 'Pears Dr. Grandley couldn't do the tahvern-keeper 
no good," said Mrs. Fenton. 

'' 'Twas because bleedin' couldn't do him any good," 
saiJ Mrs. Stone. "The doctor's as handy with his 
lancet . ez a butcher. Poor Tirzy Powers ! I sh'll 
never git over her death. There wasn't nobody like 
her. To think of her bein' in a pleurisy, an' bled till 
she couldn't hold up her head nor hand. The last 
time he bled her, her eyes set afore he could git the 
bandage fastened on her arm. There'll be a time when 
doctors won't dew so. * The life of the flesh is the 
blooJ,' so the Bible says, an' it stands ter reason." 

" Aour doctors don't bleed," said Mrs. Pomroy. 
" Do :tor Thomson says ef God bed meant to hev blood 
take 1 aout o' the veins, he'd a made a hole and 
stopfer." 

" No, Mis' Pomroy," said Mrs. Kempton, " Thomson- 
ians don't bleed, but they dose ye with lobelia an' 
* composition ' tell ye hain't any stomachs left. Jest 
you keep on, an' see where yeou an' yeour child'en '11 
be." 

" O ' Doctor Salmon bed a bad ban' to du up," inter- 
rupted Mrs. Aldrich. " Ye know James Johnson, he 
that's ben away to sea so long. Wal, Josh Wheldin 
'ad a sore ban', an' he went inter the store t'other day 
to git sunthin' fer it. ' Show me yer ban', says John- 
son — he was standin' 'hind the caounter, the side nex' 
the med'cines — so Josh he drawed off his mitt'n an' 
stuck out his ban' An' then Johnson he reached fer 



114 QUABBIN 

a bottle, and poured on thet sore ban' — what d'ye 
think? — aqjiy fortis ! Why it smoked, and went burnin' 
right inter the flesh. They was goin' to take him up, 
— 'sault and battry they call it, — but he pertended he'd 
took the wrong bottle by mistake, an' they didn't du 
nothin' tu him. P'r'aps he did, but he's a mean, bad. 
natered feller." 

'' What could Doctor Salmon du for sech a hand as 
that } " asked a neighbor. 

'' Grease it, I s'pose," said Mrs. Aldrich. 

*' He ain't so good's an old woman," said Mrs. Stone. 
'' The child'n all die where he goes, jest as ef his 
shadder killed 'em." 

" Wal, this is gettin' grisly," said Mrs. Kempton. 
*' Fust we had bears, then the Evil One, then a clock 
bewitched, then blood-lettin', and then aqua fortis. 
Ain't ther' somethin' cheerful t Sometimes I think 
Quabbin only needs an iron door to be a tomb." 

''There's the Widder Carter, I mean Mis' Spauld- 
in'," said Mrs. Hale. '' SJic looks smilin' ; an' Mr. 
Spauldin' hez straightened up amazin'." 

" Speakin' of weddin's," said the spinster, " David 
Ramsay — the one that calc'lates the eclipse — is goin' 
to be married, an' Joe Chandler is goin' to lend him his 
horse an' buggy fer his weddin' tower." 

" Another chance lost fer you, Almiry," said Mrs. 
Kempton. 

" My chance '11 keep," replied the old maid. "I'm 
waitin' fer a widower. An' have ye heard that Dr. 
Northam is makin' up ter one of the Spauldin' girls 1 
I didn't hear which, but I think it's Prudence." 

"Whichever it is," said Mrs. Stone, "it'll be pru- 
dence fer him, fer they'll git a heap o' money, each one 
on 'em." 



THE QUILTIN' I15 

At this point there was heard without, gradually 
coming nearer, the long, periodic wail of a child that 
had been crying, and appeared to be tired of it, but 
did not know whether it were better to stop altogether, 
or keep on at intervals. 

The women looked from one to another with mute 
interrogation, but in a moment Mrs. Fenton's agitated 
face showed that she reco2:nized the wailins: voice. 
She rose and squeezed her bulky person behind the 
workers' chairs, on her way to the door ; but before 
she reached it, the little sufferer appeared, and the 
sight of him was enough to make a sensitive woman 
qualmish. Mrs. Fenton applied her handkerchief to 
his nose, but, alas ! that was a trifle ; face, hands, hair, 
and clothing, made an image of neglect. 

When she found breath she exclaimed, " Lijah, how 
come you here } Who told you to come here } " The 
boy's inarticulate blubbering continued ; but at length 
he answered, with many sobs and heavings of the chest, 
'' Dad sent me out ter play, but ther' wan't anybody to 
play with." 

''What was your dad doin' thet he didn't let you stay 
in the haouse } " 

'' He's drinkin' pepper 'n cider. Then I went ter 
gran'ther's, an' Aunt Lucy said I must go 'way home. 
So I went, an' dad druve me off agin. Then I went 
ter Mis' Stone's, an' ther' wan't anybody ter hum^ ; an' 
so I come here, fer I must be sornewher ^ 

The last phrase was uttered in a loud tone of lamen- 
tation that produced, on the part of listening mothers, 
first a titter, then a giggle, and then an honest burst 
of laughter. They had not read '' La Rochefoucault " 
in Quabbin, but it was impossible not to laugh at the 



tt6 qua n bin- 

sorrows of a lonesome, untidy boy, and especially at 
the incontestable position he laid down, that he " must 
be somewhere." 

The hostess tried to make a diversion by proposing to 
take the bov into the next room, and give him a piece of 
cake ; but Mrs. F'enton, a little ruffled by the laughter, 
said she thought she would take him home. But Mrs. 
Kempton said that everything was ready, and she 
would not hear of any one going away before tea. In 
the end, Mrs. Fenton remained, and the boy as well. 

In the opinion of Ouabbin, Mrs. Kempton's spreads 
were worthy of all superlatives. The tea, pale in color, 
but really strong, was served in delicate old china, with 
flesh-colored figures ; and the fragrance of so many 
cups filled the room. 

There was bread and butter, hot biscuits (which were 
not bis cuit at all), waffles, peach preserves, apple- 
and-quince sauce, doughnuts, mince-pie, custard-pie, 
fruit-cake, sponge-cake, and mellow sage cheese. The 
tablecloth was like satiny snow. Everything was best 
and daintiest. The simple folk praised everything. 
The bread was light and ''clean-tasted;" the bis- 
cuits were "jest riz enough;" the waffles ''done to a 
turn 'thout burnin'." As for the pies, — well, 'twas of 
no use. ''Seek a mince-pie! Why it's jest beauti- 
ful ! " with a strong nasal hum on the first syllable, 
vibcatitiftd. 

Whoever has not eaten- mince-pie in some generous 
Yankee house, wherein the tradition is several genera- 
tions old, has no right to an opinion ; and whoever 
dares to call it vulgar, may he live and die unblessed 
with the incommunicable flavor! Dyspepsia.'* Per- 
haps ; but for a mince-pie such as one remembers, ay, 



THE QUILT IN' WJ 

and for other delectable dainties like those on Mrs. 
Kempton's table, the fiend might do his worst. 

The smaU Fenton ate his generous slice of cake, 
then stole to the back of his mother's chair, and from 
time to time received divers sweet morsels. By and 
bv, what with the original layer of dirt, the channels of 
tears, and the invasion of mucous fluids, and with the 
smear of sugary lollipops, the boy's face would have 
b2en a model for ^i genre painter. Art might copy, but 
not surpass. And then he was the author of a pro- 
found philosophic saying. 

Then Mrs. Aldrich found it was '' gittin' late," and, 
after some honest compliments, went for her "things." 
Mrs. Fenton and her son followed, the latter not much 
regretted. Soon all had departed except the intimates, 
Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Hale, and Miss IMarble. 

'' Now sit down, girls,'' said Mrs. Kempton, with a 
burst of gay humor. '* Sit down; we'll have some 
more tea, some fresh cups, and a good, old-fashioned 
time." And they did. 



Il8 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XIII 

WORKING THE ROADS 

Those who are familiar with the excellent roads in 
Eastern Massachusetts can have little idea of the 
conditions of travel sixty years ago in the poorer dis- 
tricts of the western part of the State. The original 
settlers generally selected high ground for the centre 
of a town, to prevent being surprised by Indians, and 
therefore most of the old routes are hilly. 

Ouabbin, a newer town, was built in a valley, but its 
roads furnished all the facilities for discomfort. There 
were within its limits no high hills to be crossed, but, 
to make up for their absence, plenty of sharp ''pitches," 
with sinuosities and angles favorable to overturns, and 
with projecting points and edges of underlying ledges, 
so as to give a series of shocks to each vehicle. Other 
hill-roads were strewn with loose stones of assorted 
sizes, over which horses stumbled and wagons rattled. 
One of these was in the centre of the town ; a short 
descent, but rough as the moraine of a glacier ; and a 
man who drove down toward the tavern at a trot was 
tossed about as if he were in a boat on breakers. 
Others had a bed of deep clay, into which in rainy 
weather the wheels sank almost to the hubs. Some of 
the roads over pine plains and through valleys had a 
covering of sand, which, while wet, was impacted and 



WORKING THE ROADS 1 19 

smooth, but in dry weather was in yellowish granules, 
through which the wagon-wheels squealed in making 
their furrows. 

To prevent a hill-road from being washed in time of 
heavy rain, it was the custom to make across it, at in- 
tervals, a series of barriers or dams that would turn off 
any sudden current. These dams, built obliquely, gave 
an emphatic "jounce " and a twist to a wagon descend- 
ing, — a jounce of which the driver had his share in a 
jerk that threatened to dislocate his neck. From the 
involuntary motion of the head in going over these 
dams, they were popularly known as *'thank'ee ma'ams," 
although the motion was scarcely conducive to a 
grateful state of mind. 

To adorn the steep hill-roads with these ingenious 
obstructions, to clear out the rude gutters, and to 
cover hollows and rutted places with turf, loose soil, 
and roots of bushes, dug at random from the bank, so 
as to make the " repaired " section like a newly ploughed 
field, was the total of road-making science in that day. 

County commissioners had paramount authority, in 
regard to long routes (county roads), but made their 
authority felt less in former times than now. Gradino; 
and macadamizing were unknown, and are still rare in 
Ouabbin and in its region. Neighborhood roads were 
laid out, repaired, or discontinued by each town within 
its limits. 

Once or twice a year the whole male populat:"on was 
called out to work the roads. If any one so chose, 
he commuted the service by a payment in money. 
Notice was given by the highway surveyors for the 
several districts (officers chosen at the annual town 
meeting), and the people met at the places designated, ' 



I20 QUABBIN 

to work under direction. A poor man took a hoe or 
shovel, a farmer his oxen, with plough or cart, accord- 
ing to need. The surveyors adjusted the corvee as best 
they could, according to the ability of each one liable. 
The surveyors were not paid, and they labored with the 
others ; still, the office was sought for, because the 
man in authority would be able to keep the road near 
his house in fair condition, and because he would 
'* have the say "as to when the work was to be done, 
and could appoint days that would be convenient for 
Jiim. In winter, after a heavy fall of snow, the roads 
were ''broken out" by the people, under the direction 
of the district surveyors. 

Working parties began on the part of the road near- 
est the centre, and proceeded outward, making repairs 
as they went, until they reached the boundary. Often 
they met there a similar party from the adjoining town ; 
and then at luncheon time there were jumping-matches, 
back-hugs, pulling the stick, tugs-of-war, and other 
athletic games, besides the customary banter and chaff. 

One day, by chance, the Ouabbin men, working 
southward, came in sight of a party belonging to Ware, 
and, as there were various old scores to be settled be- 
tween the respective towns' champions, the surveyors 
in charge on either side got very little more work done 
that day. The two parties differed little in appearance. 
Their clothes were mostly of an indescribable neutral 
tint ; their heavy boots were coated with mud, their 
hats without shape, and their hair often straggling and 
untidy. But what was specially characteristic of the 
people of the time, was a certain sheepish air, and a 
heavy, awkward gait. It was necessary to see the rus- 
tic Yankee in action to know that he could be viva- 
cious and encro-etic. 



WORKING THE ROADS 121 

After some preliminaries the distances were paced 
off, and there were races of one hundred and two hun- 
dred yards, in which the honors were fairly divided. 
At the high standing-jump Quabbin won. At the tug- 
of-war Ware won. At pulling the stick victory came 
to Quabbin. This was the crucial test of power and 
endurance. The two antagonists sat on the ground 
facing each other, their legs extended so that the soles 
of each were squarely against those of his adversary. 
A smooth, round stick, some two or three feet in length, 
held transversely, was grasped by both, and at the 
word, each endeavored to pull the other enough to lift 
him from the ground. It was a tremendous struggle, 
but without visible sign, except in the agonized strain 
of the muscles of face and neck. Often it was a draw, 
neither being able to raise the other. Whoever pulled 
spasmodically was pretty sure to be beaten ; it was the 
long, steady pull that succeeded. The success of 
Quabbin was due to the aid of a stalwart young man, 
six feet at least, and with the breast and shoulders of 
Hercules, newly arrived from Vermont. No Ware 
man could hold his seat against him. 

This was before the temperance reform had made 
much headway, and at the luncheon new rum was 
freely circulated. There was one who could not be 
called anything else but a drunkard, but who, in spite 
of his well-known failing, was regarded with kindness, 
for he was good-natured, lively, sensible, and often 
witty. In the early stages of exaltation he was the 
centre of merriment. He was doing service that day 
in place of one Crombie, who had the reputation of 
being " closer'n the bark tu a tree." Poor Dick had 
been furnished with luncheon by his employer, and he 



122 QUAE BIN 

opened the parcel. There was a doughnut (''niitcake" 
they called it), a hunch of skim-milk cheese, and a pair 
of slices of rye-bread and butter. The doughnut was 
tough, the cheese like horn, and as for butter, one 
never saw it so thinly spread. '' Wal," said Dick, 
** Mis' Crombie's got ter be talked tu. I k'n munch the 
nutcake, I guess, an' p'r'aps worry off a bit o' thet 
che:se-rine, but I wish she wouldn't cut my bread with 
a greasy knife." ^ 

A Ware man, wishing to hear Dick talk, asked him 
how Mr. Crombie, his employer, liked being a director 
of the bank } 

"Wal," said Dick, ''when I went ter school, the dic- 
tionary said a d'rector is one who d'rects, an' that ain't 
the case 'ith Bije Crombie. He come home t'other day 
f m d'rectors' meetin' ez praoud's a turkey gobbler, but 
tried to keep it all inside. Ye understand, nobody f'm 
Ouabbin, that I ever heered on, was a bank d'rector 
before. I see he wanted me to ask him abaout it, so I 
said, ' Mr. Crombie, I s'pose yeou see an' handled a lot 
o' gold an' silver daown ter the bank, Du they keep 
the coin in piles like grain, an' shovel 'em in an' aout } 
Or be they packed in berrils V — * No,' said he, ' it's in 
a vault, a gret square hole in a wall, cased 'raound 'ith 
iron. They didn't take any on it aout.' — * Oh,' said I, 
' then yeou don't know haow much ther' was }' — ' Yis,' 
said he, * the cashier gin us the statement.' An' aout he 
takes a bit o' paper an' reads, so much in gold, so much 
in silver, so much in bank-notes, and then so much 



1 Giraldus Canibrensis, in an amusing sketch of his travels in Wales, records 
a similar witticism uttered by a peasant, and, unconscious of his own absurdity, 
takes the troubh to demonstrate the fallacy in the reasoning by gravely citing the 
rule of logic that is infringed. 



WORKING THE ROADS 1 23 

assets. 'What in the name o' natur' is assets? Ther's 
loatis an discounts, with big figgers, that 'pear to be a 
leetle mixed, — didn't jest know haow they stood ; but 
assets stumped me ! they did, I vum. Howsever, they 
gin us a dividend o' ten per cent, an' that's sunthin. 
Ez I k'n borry all the money I sh'd want at six, I don't 
see haow they k'n pay us ten. But I'm glad ter git the 
money.' Naow," continued Dick, '' yeou k'n see ef a 
d'rector is one who d'rects." 

While Dick was talking he took an occasional swig 
from his bottle, and as he entered with a keen relish 
into the account of Mr. Crombie's views of finance, his 
broad, rosy face was overspread with an oozy perspira- 
tion, and gilded with a perpetual smile. For the time 
he was happier than the director. 

There w^as in the neighborhood an old iron cannon 
which appeared to have no owner, and which had been 
alternately captured and recaptured by the young 
fellows of Ware on one side, and those of Quabbin 
on the other, for many years. It was a six-pounder, 
bearing on its breech a crown and the letters G. R.,'and 
was deeply pitted with rust. It was used for firing 
salutes on the Fourth of July, and for that purpose 
was chained upon the axle-tree of a pair of cart-wheels. 
At the time of this road-party the Ware fellows had it, 
well hidden away as they believed ; and, naturally, the 
Quabbin boys were trying to ascertain where it was, that 
they might make a midnight excursion and bring it off. 
When the new rum had induced confidence, a youth of 
the Quabbin party said to one of Ware, — 

'' Ain't ye 'fraid that ol' cannon '11 bust } I hear yeou 
fellers fired it all day las' Fourth o' Jewly. Some of 
aour folks that was daown tu Bost'n in the last war, an' 



124 QUA B BIN 

who was artill'ry men, an' knows 'baout guns, says the 
ol' thing's jest rotten, an' '11 fly ter pieces some day, 
like a mouldy cheese." The youth from Ware looked 
wary, and made only an inarticulate response. The 
Quabbin youth went on, — 

"Th' ol' fellers up ter Quabbin says they're glad it's 
away ; fer ef it busts it's better that it sh'd kill Ware 
boys than aourn." 

" They are very kind," said the youth of Ware. 

" I was on'y wantin' to give ye a friendly warnin'," 
said he of Quabbin. 

" Much obleeged," said young Ware. 

*' Ef yeou folks air so ferce to keep it," said young 
Quabbin, looking keenly at his companion, '' I wonder 
yeou let it lay in sech an open place as Lyman's ol' 
kerridge haouse, daown on the Palmer Road." 

'' Who told yeou 'twas there } " was the sudden and 
unguarded response. 

*T heered it." This was a fib. The attempt at loca- 
tion was only a bold guess, and proved true. The 
Quabbin boy looked indifferent, offered his companion 
a *'nutcake," and changed the subject. 

It may be added that not long after the Quabbin 
boys found the cannon, and drew it home, seven miles. 
On the next Fourth of July before daylight it was 
dragged through the thick woods to the top of Ram 
Mountain, and the slumbering village was roused by 
the unexpected thunder which echoed along the valley. 
The following year the Ware boys recovered the gun, 
but, as had been predicted, it burst, — fortunately with- 
out loss of life. 

In smaller parties there was talk of courtships, of 
good places for fishing, of the price of mink and mus- 



I 



WORKING THE ROADS 1 25 

quash skins, of the ministers, singing-schools, and 
other matters of general interest. The marriage of 
David Ramsay, the mathematician, was the occasion 
of some amusing talk, as he was over fifty, and his 
wife no longer young. Dick, who was not very far 
advanced in inebriation, told of a conversation he heard 
between the bridegroom on his return from the wed- 
ding-trip, and Joe Chandler, who had lent him his team. 
Joe asked a great many questions, to which David made 
few answers. At last he said, ''Well, now, David, 
what d'ye think of matrimony.'* And how do you like 
your new condition?" — ''Wal," said David, "ezto mat- 
rimony, it depends^ ye see. I don't know nothin' 'bout 
widders, — but merryin' an' ol' maid's a putterin' job." 

A discussion then arose over the pretensions of the 
two towns. Odds were offered that the new factory vil- 
lage in Ware *'was goin' to beat Ouabbin all holler." 
These retorted that land in Ware was so poor that "a 
rabbit 'd shed tears cf he hed to git his livin' off 'm a 
ten-acre lot on 't." Ware replied that Quabbin ''didn't 
raise nothin' but polecats an' skunks' cabbige." 

Then rose an ancient Quabbin man with a merry 
blue eye, and delivered, off-hand, a few lines of rhyme, 
albeit with a slight impediment in his speech. 

" Dame Nature once, in makin^ land, 
Hed refuse left o"* stones an** sand ; 
She viewed it o'er, then flung it down 
Between Coy's Hill an"* Belchertown. 
Said she, ' Yeou paltry stui^', lie there !' 
An' made a town, an"" called it Ware ! " 

All laughed, the Ware men included, and then the 
rhymer was asked to sing. He had a good natural 



126 



QUABBIN 



voice (wholly uncultivated), abundant feeling, and a 
surprising memory. It was said that he knew the 
words and music of above two hundred songs. When 
he sang, he sang "to the ends of his fingers and toes." 
He did not say he was hoarse or out of practice, nor 
wait to be pressed, but in compliance with general de- 
sire sang "Wolfe's Adieu," a sweet, old-fashioned song. 
The taking of Quebec was not then so very long ago. 
In singing, every trace of his impediment disappeared. 

"Too soon, my dearest Sophy, 

Pray take this kind adieu. 
Ah, Love, thy pains how bitter. 

Thy joys how short, how few ! 
No more those eyes so kilHng, 

That terider glance repeat. 
With bosom gently swelling. 

Where love's soft tumults beat. 



Two passions strongly pleading 

My doleful heart divide ; 
Lo, there's my country bleeding. 

And here's my weeping bride. 
But no, thy faithful lover 

Can true to either prove ; 
War fires my veins all over. 

While every pulse beats love. 

I go where glory leads me, . 

And points the dangerous way, 
Though cowards m.ay upbraid me, 

Yet honor bids obey. 
But honor's boasting story 

Too oft thy swain doth move, 
And whispers fame with glory. 

Ah, what is that to love ! 



WORKING THE ROADS 12/ 

Then think where'er I wander, 

Through parts by sea or land, 
No distance e'er can sunder 

What mutual love hath joined. 
Kind heaven, the brave requiting. 

Shall safe thy swain restore, 
And raptures crown our meeting 

Which love ne'er felt before." ' 

Hearty applause followed ; and then the singer gave 
the ever popular *' Vicar of Bray" with vigor and 
humor. 

The survevors at length induced their parties to 
separate. The contingent for Quabbin started home- 
ward, and, as they went, smoothed with hoe or shovel 
some of the roughest of the work they had done. It 
was but a few miles they had to walk, and all got home 
safely, even poor Dick, who had not always such good 
luck. 

A working party on the roads was never a just repre- 
sentation of the people of Quabbin. Few thriving 
mechanics, and none of the men of influence, did per- 
sonal service, because it was better to pay the money 
than lose a day. The force which a surveyor could 
muster was largely made up of hirelings, and of those 
who did not count for much in town or church affairs ; 
and that accounts for the hilarity, as well as the easy- 
going way in which the work was done. 

1 The stanzas are written from memory, after sixty years, and there may be 
some errors. 



128 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XIV 

VILLAGE AND COUNTRY 

The old manners naturally survived longest in dis- 
tricts remote from the village and its modernizing in- 
fluences. This fact was conspicuous among the folk 
on the Great Hill at the north-west, which covered parts 
of the territory of three towns. It was a region where 
what was oldest and rudest in English rural counties 
lived on, but under less favorable conditions ; for the 
soil was rough and unproductive, markets were dis- 
tant, and money exceedingly scarce. Probably there 
could not be seen to-day on the hilly roads a barefooted 
driver of oxen, or a farmer in blue frock "oinGf to mill ; 
but sixty years ago woollen frocks in winter, and flaxen 
or tow breeches and bare feet in summer, were common 
enough. The difference between these people and 
those in the social centre was like a gulf between cen- 
turies ; and the rooted antipathy on the part of the hill 
people toward the better-dressed villagers was almost 
past belief. There could hardly have been a sharper 
line of division between Jew and Gentile. The differ- 
ences had slowly come about from the lack of frequent 
communication, of good schools, and of a convenient 
place for united worship. As most of the families on 
the hill had a common origin, and were nearly all con- 
nected by marriage, there came to be a known type of 



VILLAGE AND COUNTRY 1 29 

countenance among them. Their ways were painfully 
coarse, but actual illiteracy was uncommon ; that is to 
say, it was rare to find a man who could not sign his 
name, and keep what might pass for accounts, to be 
sharply disputed over at settlement with the store- 
keeper ; but the general ignorance would have been 
charming to those who place the Golden Age in the cen- 
turies before the Reformation. There were few books 
(probably not half a dozen to a household), almost no 
newspapers, no hints of science, and no knowledge of 
the world, literally or figuratively. The people spoke 
their mother tongue as they had heard it, using words 
long obsolete, as well as Saxon plurals and termina- 
tions, wholly unconscious that there was such a thing 
as grammar. The difference between their speech and 
that of the village was, however, more in matter than 
in phrase ; but the universal drawl and twisting of 
accent were considerably intensified on the hill. Lit- 
erary English is the product of centuries of learned 
labor ; chimney-corner English is a common and inde- 
feasible inheritance, somewhat abused by Yankees, it 
must be admitted. 

In a religious point of view, the majority in the re- 
mote districts were not actively, but passively, ungodly, 
or at least indifferent to the established worship. 
Many were too far from the meeting-house to attend 
regularly, even if they had not such a repugnance to 
the village set ; besides, they and their horses had need 
of rest ; and when they heard the gospel at all, it was 
at a district schoolhouse, where some unlettered apostle 
of an Ishmaelitish church gloried in non-conformity, 
and poured contempt upon '' book-larnin'," *' hirelin' 
priests," and the "praise of God with choirs and 



I30 QUABBIN 

fiddles." Some of these, later, supported the Metho- 
dist church, and contributed to build for it a small 
meetinfi-house in the centre of Ouabbin. 

The distrust of the village folks which prevailed in 
the outskirts was assiduously cultivated by neighbor- 
hood leaders, until it became something like that of a 
British radical for a Tory peer. In any popular 
assembly there will be parties ; and local managers, 
(demagogues they might be called) make them serve 
their personal ends. From this source came the long 
and obstinate resistance to the improvement of the 
public schools, and to the making of needed roads and 
bridges. Fierce but bloodless battles were fought at 
the annual town meetings, where any proposition, of 
what nature soever, if made by an enlightened villager, 
especially if he happened to be prominent in the 
church, was at once opposed by all the outdwellers and 
dissidents, these always rising to be counted when the 
** otherwise minded " were called by the moderator. 

The drunken and depraved portion of the towns- 
people naturally sided with the " otherwise minded '* 
in opposing the party of the church and parish ; but 
that portion was not large, and the greater and better 
part of the opposition were not at all responsible for 
the conduct of their shameless allies. 

It is not to be supposed that the villagers — '* towns- 
people " they were called in the country — were greatly 
distinguished for reading or general intelligence, for 
there were scarcely more than half a dozen fairly well- 
educated families among them, and, judged by any high 
standard, not so many ; but the advantage was, that 
among the less educated villagers there was no bigoted 
preference for ignorance. If they were not illuminated, 
their faces were turned toward the light. 



VILLAGE AND COUNTRY 13I 

The few collections of books were well known, and, 
excepting that of the second minister and of the 
lawyer, it is doubtful if any contained so many as a 
hundred volumes ; few had as many as fifty. It is 
painful to think of the meagre supply of reading avail- 
able, excepting religious works. If a boy were looking 
about for something to read, he would have found 
Josephus, Rollin's " Ancient History," the '' Pil- 
grim's Progress," and some religious treatises before 
mentioned; also, "Riley's Narrative," a story of cap- 
tivity among Arabs, Milton, Pollok's " Course of 
Time," Cowper, a few lives of celebrated preachers, 
and the- like. If there were any complete copies of 
the works of Shakspeare, Dryden, Pope, Addison, or 
Johnson, they must have been seldom exhibited and 
seldom read. The same may be said of Burns, Byron, 
Coleridge, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Keats. No " pro- 
fane " author v/as ever quoted in a discourse ; and every 
author was profane who did not write upon religious 
subjects, and on evangelical lines. No instruction was 
given in literature in the schools ; no English poetry 
was ever used except to be picked to pieces in parsing 
lessons. Therefore an intelligent lad might get what 
education the schools of Ouabbin could give him, with- 
out ever seeing any work of the great British poets 
(Milton excepted), or of any great writers of English 
prose (Bunyan excepted), and without knowing the 
character or even the existence of any '' profane " 
author who did not happen to be represented by a 
specimen in some reading-book. Sometimes a youth 
might be favored by a certain generous but "worldly" 
old lady, who had preserved in secret books of tales 
like "The Arabian Nights," or romances like "The 



32 



QUAE BIN 



Scottish Chiefs," or more recent poems like "The Lady 
of the Lake." But the youth could not keep such 
books in safety, except in the barn and under the hay, 
nor read them, except at intervals and by stealth. 

To ignore all literature except their own was the 
policy of the religious leaders of Massachusetts. They 
did not make an Lidcx ExpurgatoriuSy for notoriety 
would have defeated their puipose. 

If such was the intellectual conditions of the vil- 
lage, what must have been the darkness of the outly- 
ing regions t 



^ 



TOWN-, PARISH, AND CHURCH 133 



CHAPTER XV 

TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 

A "town" in Massachusetts is a small republic, or 
a corporation erected by statute in certain fixed 
limits, and exercising powers established and defined 
by a general law. The existence and functions of 
towns antedate any legislation. At the beginning, each 
''plantation" set up its local government as by intui- 
tion. ''Township" is not a native term, and, so far as 
it has any meaning in Massachusetts, refers to the ter- 
ritory of a town. The town, as we have seen, main- 
tains within its boundaries roads, bridges, and schools, 
and supports its poor, if there should be any having a 
legal settlement. Formerly it was obliged to provide 
for the military drill and equipment of its able-bodied 
citizens oi'*legal age. Formerly, also, it elected the 
minister, voted his salary, and raised the amount by 
taxation, like other town charges ; for in early times 
the town and parish were one. Later, the notion of 
the town was that of a corporation for civil purposes, 
and of the parish, a corporation for religious purposes ; 
and in many cases both corporations covered the same 
area. If a town was large and became populous, it 
might be divided (for religious purposes solely) into two 
or more parishes. A " church " means such persons as 
have made a prescribed profession of faith and expe- 
rience, and have united under a covenant. A church- 



134 QUAE BIN 

member, unless non-resident, was necessarily a member 
of the parish, but the reverse was not necessary. 

Every inhabitant used to be assessed by the author- 
ities of the town for civil purposes, and of the parish 
for religious purposes. In earlier times, and while the 
town and parish were virtually one, there was no excep- 
tion to this rule ; but after a time the law allowed a 
man to sever his connection with the parish, without 
changing his residence, if he could show that he was 
taxed for the support of worship elsewhere. Unbe- 
lievers and dissidents, sixty years ago, considered the 
compulsory support of the gospel an oppression ; and 
there was no end of wrath and profanity about it, until 
at length the voluntary system was established by law, 
and the final divorce of church and state accomplished. 
That, one would think, was the '' Emancipation of 
Massachusetts." 

Most well-disposed people paid the ''minister tax" 
whether they went to meeting or not. To withdraw 
was called " signing-off," — a bull in terms, but a pro- 
ceeding perfectly understood, — and was considered 
disreputable, unless prompted by religious conviction. 
Many members of the parish were not church-mem- 
bers, although they might regularly attend meeting. 
When the bi-monthly communion was to be celebrated, 
non church-members usually left the meeting-house 
after sermon. 

The parish and church voted separately upon the 
calling of a minister, and upon the amount of his sal- 
ary. Differences often occurred, and, even when the 
two bodies agreed, there was a third power to be con- 
sulted, namely an ecclesiastical council, composed of 
ministers and delegates from neighboring churches, 



TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 135 

whose approval was considered necessary in later times. 
A minister's first settlement was an "ordination;" a 
subsequent one an ''installation." 

So Quabbin sixty years ago was a duplex republic ; 
an organized democracy in civil affairs, and a religious 
corporation in its other aspect. In the annual town- 
meeting, and in the parish-meeting, every man had his 
voice and his vote. There was (and still is) no rank or 
primacy except from known ability and worth. With 
characteristic simplicity the chief officers of a town 
were styled the *' Selectmen," and, with a view of re- 
straining loquacity and personalities, the chairman, 
chosen for each occasion, was termed the ** Moder- 
ator." There were also chosen each year a School 
Committee, Overseers of the Poor, Town Clerk, Treas- 
urer, and Surveyors of Highways. 

The first business in order was the presentation of 
reports of town officers for the year then ending. 
These were read, discussed, and acted upon, and their 
recommendations submitted to vote. Appropriations 
were then made for the various town charges, after 
which the officers for the coming year were elected by 
ballot. In no legislative body was business more intel- 
ligently done, and out of this long experience there 
has been made a manual of practice. The moderator 
ruled upon the admissibility of motions, and the order 
of precedence, in case more than one was made at the 
same time. He knew the "p'ints of order," and 
promptly decided what question was rightfully before 
the meeting. Any one aggrieved by his decision 
might appeal to the meeting, which sustained or re- 
versed his ruling by a majority vote. Probably there 
is nowhere a body of men better trained to public 



136 



QUAE BIN 



service than the voters of New England, and of those 
States that have followed the same methods. There 
are places in Great Britain in which there is not the 
least notion of an orderly or parliamentary procedure ; 
as, for instance, where the chairman of a meeting 
makes a motion, — which is in itself absurd, — and 
where such a motion and a hostile amendment are sub- 
mitted to a vote at one and the same time. An expe- 
rienced moderator would make short work of the 
confusion that arises from ignorance or mischief, and 
promptly show what question is rightfully before the 
meeting. The usage was not copied from the rules of 
the State Legislature ; on the contrary, the town was 
the original unit and model, and the State an aggrega- 
tion. The experience of a century and a half in these 
primitive assemblies made the working of the State 
Legislature under the Constitution an easy matter. 

The state of schools, roads, bridges, and the town 
accounts, with all that concerns public order and well- 
being, were discussed by and in presence of those 
vitally interested. Whoever had anything to say, said 
it ; and practice made speech pointed and effective. 
It was face to face and man to man. Facts and wise 
suggestions had weight ; but, when the business of a 
year was to be finished in a session of a day, mere talk 
had small consideration. 

This little annual parliament has some likeness to 
the village assemblies of our Teutonic ancestors, and 
to the democratic rule in ancient Athens; but as a 
scheme of local administration it is more practical 
and efficient than any ever devised. It Vv^as and is a 
means of education of the highest value. 

Something has been said of the effect of political 



TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 1 3/ 

independence upon character, and of the sturdy spirit 
that came from the individual ownership of farms, and 
from the extinction of feudal customs. To these must 
be added the institution of the " town," as one of the 
influences that have made New England people what 
they are. 

This simple and automatic machine, with the general 
education and moral training which then came into 
being, was the sure foundation of personal liberty and 
free government. Every voter was in effect a member 
of a committee of supervision upon all matters which 
concerned him. By himself, or by a known and ac- 
cepted proxy, he managed the schools, kept order, 
repressed evil-doers, and maintained highways. It was 
to his own nominee that he paid the taxes he had 
assisted in levying : no stranger came to take his hard- 
earned money. His trusted neighbor was the justice 
before VN^hom he could plead his cause. The law was 
not a distant or distrusted power; its force was exer- 
cised for him in so far as he was just. He was at once 
ruler and subject, a member of the only true and benefi- 
cent democracy the world has seen. Why should he 
not cheerfully obey, since the precepts were of his own 
making, and the instruments of justice named by his 
own voice } 

Under local control the schools have naturally indi- 
cated the state of public sentiment. People would have 
felt less personal interest even in better schools, if they 
had been directed by some remote or exterior authority. 
With the general advance of intelligence the schools 
have been improved, and each neighborhood regards its 
own with the pride of possession. 

Furthermore, the svstem of town o^overnment has 



13S 



QUABBTM 






made possible the plan of "local option " as to the sale 
of intoxicating drinks. A town, by its vote, may per- 
mit or deny the granting of licenses for the retail sale 
of spirits, wine, and beer within its borders. In a 
very great number of small towns such licenses are for- 
bidden, and the general good order in the villages is 
believed to be due to this regulation. 

Carlyle, who, if his writings had been speech, would 
have made more noise than any in his generation, has 
given way to many outbursts of temper upon talk. 
And, truly, when talkers without knowledge are desir- 
ous mainly of hearing their own voices, and have not a 
heartfelt interest in the thing discussed, nor power to 
follow up opinion by action, talk may be as dreary and 
profitless as he represents it. But when it is spent 
upon topics that come home to men's " business and 
bosoms," on a fit and necessary occasion, with per- 
sonal knowledge of the matters to be decided, and 
with intention to decide them then and there, surely 
talk is one of the most important and useful of 
faculties. 

New England has been justly reproached as the 
country of windy oratory. Almost every eminent 
scholar and public man in times past felt bound to 
deliver set " orations," and to include them in his 
published works, but the fashion has had its day. 
Still, something may be said in favor of a system which 
enables people to set forth their views on matters of 
public interest with clearness and force ; especially 
when they are able to make of thought, fact ; of ideas, 
institutions ; of resolve, action ; of character, renown. 

There are people who are reasonably intelligent, and 
yet are unable to listen to opinions and arguments 



139 

which they do not approve. At the appearance of a 
leader of a party opposed to theirs, and often at the 
bare mention of his name, they burst forth in impre- 
cations, hootings, and yells, and endeavor to drown the 
speaker's voice and break up the meeting. Others 
still more violent use missiles and clubs, so that band- 
ages, eye-shades, and sticking-plaster become neces- 
sities for a candidate's outfit. Such men would need 
some preliminary education before they could take part 
in the business of a deliberative body. The people of 
New England have not been without blame in this 
respect, as all early anti-slavery men well remember ; 
but in town meetings the decorum observed, even in 
the sharpest contests, has been remarkable. The self- 
control acquired in these annual assemblies has done 
much to preserve the amenities in political gatherings, 
and has made possible something like dispassionate 
consideration of public questions. 

Quabbin, like other towns, had its stormy meetings ; 
sometimes it was the town party, and sometimes the 
country party that won ; but in the long run justice 
was generally done. An instance of sharp practice 
maybe mentioned: — 

A wealthy and prominent citizen, who was a leading 
church-member, and vehemently disliked by the people 
of the outlying districts, made a motion at one meet- 
ing that the authorities be instructed to close a certain 
road v/hich was little used. He said nothing in sup- 
port of his motion, and preserved an impassible look. 
A leading man in the country party was quick to see 
that the mover really wanted the road kept open, as it 
led to his own land. This man, therefore, promptly 
seconded the motion, looking round keenly at his sup- 



140 



QUAE DIN 



porters in tne rear of the hall. They were in full force 
that day, and the motion was carried by show of hands. 
The truth was, the mover had found that whatever he 
proposed was defeated, and, desiring- to have this road 
maintained for his personal convenience, moved to dis- 
continue it, and was caught in his own trap. It was a 
pity he resorted to a trick by which his influence was 
so much impaired ; for he had been one of the most 
liberal and enlightened friends of the public schools, 
and in favor of most projects of reform. 



THE SECOND MINISTER 141 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE SECOND MINISTER 

This young man was ordained as colleague, with a 
salary of five hundred dollars and the use of a good 
modern house. The use of " pounds " in reckoning 
had gone by. At the ceremony of ordination there 
was present a small spectator, who in after years re- 
called "the laying on of hands." The pulpit seemed 
to be black with ministers, — swarming with them ; 
and at a certain time the candidate knelt, with his 
pale face on the puffy crimson cover of the desk, and 
then ever so many white hands were stretched out, 
and rested on his head while the "ordaining prayer" 
was made. 

The new minister was a slender man, of serious 
yet pleasant countenance, with soft, engaging, deep-set 
brown eyes, which could flash upon occasion, and a 
broad white forehead with full temples that showed 
a network of throbbing veins. He looked fragile, but 
was nervous and wiry, and an indefatigable v/orker. 
There was enough for him to do. 

The state of religion, viewed as a ceremony, was 
much as it had always been ; but the life of religion, 
which is active piety, with soberness, purity, and godly 
living, had sadly declined. This was seen in every 
aspect of society, but chiefly in the prevalent habit of 



142 QUABBIN 

drinking, in the dull formality of prayer-meetings, and 
in the wretched state of the schools. The new minis- 
ter soon came to the conclusion that no ** revival " 
would permanently benefit the church, and that no 
efforts could raise the standard of education, until the 
excess of drinking was restrained. But he found out, 
as Dr. Johnson did long before, that moderation was 
more difficult than abstinence ; and he set to work to 
found a total abstinence society, of which a revived 
church was to be the nucleus. 

The drinking habit had been universal, and though 
there were not many notorious drunkards, true modera- 
tion w^as rare. People who wanted it, got rum at the 
store, and kept it at home, or in their workshops. As 
we have seen, it appeared at the pastoral call ; it re- 
freshed the ecclesiastical council at an ordination ; it 
was glorious at a house-raising when neighbors came 
to give a lift, and indispensable at the annual training. 
When heads were heated, the usual consequences fol- 
lowed : sometimes the machinist talked foully ; or it 
was the shoemaker who declaimed politics while he 
slit the upper leather in trimming a shoe ; or it was the 
butcher who argued upon theology as he bled a calf ; 
or it was the blacksmith who had grown oblivious of a 
waiting customer, and let his fire die out on the forge. 
As has been already stated, the indications of intem- 
perance among the farms met the eye at the first 
glance, in dilapidation and ruin. There were carts 
without wheels, and wheels without carts, and all man- 
ner of broken tools, cumbering the yards. The grass 
plots were defiled by geese. Petticoats and old hats 
were stuffed in broken windows. Fences leaned, gates 
were off their hinges, and walls were tottering. Lean 



THE SECOND MINISTER 143 

and discontented cows got into the growing corn. 
Colts went about with manes and tails full of burrs. 
Pigs disported in the vegetable garden. Orchards 
lapsed into wildness, and bristled with useless shoots. 
Untended pastures were nibbled bare, and dotted with 
clumps of bushes. Mowing fields were overrun with 
sorrel and white-weed. 

Meanwhile there were accidents, woes, *' wounds 
without cause," falls from wagon or cart, stumbles in 
ditches, and a sorry show of bleared eyes, cracked 
hands, and unshaven faces. Voices on such farms were 
under no control ; men shouted, women screamed, and 
boys replied : there was one from which the high- 
pitched voices were often heard for half a mile. Wives 
struggled long on the downward slope, striving to keep 
up an air of respectability, but at length gave way to 
despair, sank to their husband's level, or lower, and be- 
came frowsy, loose-haired, and sharp-tongued. Scold- 
ing only deepened the common misery. By knitting 
stockings they procured tea or snuff, if they used it, 
or a bit of calico. The daughters when they wanted 
gowns or ribbons paid for them by braiding palm-leaf 
hats. The boys had a hard time to get their school- 
ing, and were glad to trap muskrats, mink, partridges, 
or rabbits, and to gather wild nuts or berries, so as to 
buy hats, boots, and books. 

Oh ! those farms ! what misery did they not witness. 
Love had flown long before ; self-respect was dead, and 
comfort a rare visitor. Sordid poverty was in posses- 
sion, with ignorance, ill-temper, and brutishness. But 
there was always a supply of hard cider and of rum ; 
the store-keeper gave liberal credit, on conditions ; and, 
until the lencrth of the tether was run, the farmer's 



144 QUABBm 

nose continued to glow like a dull ruby. But the end 
came sooner or later. The sheriff's officer was no 
stranger, and sometimes a debtor or trespasser was 
carried away to the county jail. 

What was political independence, or ownership of 
land in severalty, or the education of town meetings, 
or the preaching of the gospel, or any other blessing, 
to men sunk in such degradation } 

The minister saw that half measures would not do ; 
he threw his whole soul into the work of inducing the 
church to take a stand upon total abstinence, and at 
length succeeded. Intemperate brethren were warned, 
and, if necessary, excommunicated. To be a church- 
member was to be an abstainer. The next move prom- 
ised to be more difficult. He turned to the parish and 
the town, and after a time got the authorifies to dis- 
countenance the excesses that had attended public 
meetings. He had to wait for a chance to attack the 
people of the wild and drunken district, but at length 
one came to him most unexpectedly. 

There was a meeting of the able-bodied men of the 
military company for drill or display, which was followed 
by a tragic incident. The like of this village ''training" 
was never seen except in some burlesque on the stage. 
The men kept time to the sound of fife and drums, but 
of erect military carriage, of the manual of arms, and 
of company-formation, they were ludicrously ignorant. 
Heads moved automatically from side to side, shoulders 
rose and fell in a distressing rhythm, and awkward feet 
struck out right and left. Even the boys, who had 
never seen any well-drilled company parade, laughed 
and shouted from one end of the common to the 
other. 



THE SECOND MINISTER 145 

The head-gear was in shape like an apothecary's mor- 
tar ; the material of shining black leather, with a flat 
brass chain festooned across the front, and a chin- 
strap; the whole surmounted by a plume made of small 
feathers, standing more than a foot high ; the lower 
part white, and the tip bright crimson. The coat was 
dark green, closely fitting, with brass buttons, and trans- 
versely braided on the breast with yellow galloon. The 
trousers were of white linen. The officers wore red 
sashes. It was a gay costume. The manoeuvres were 
simple to childishness. The firing of the flint-lock 
muskets (with blank cartridges) resembled nothing so 
much as the hap-hazard clatter of the hinged seats in 
the meeting-house. 

When the show was over the soldiers gathered at the 
tavern, where rum-punch was consumed by bucketfuls ; 
and at sundown the scattering of bewildered men for 
their homes, swaying in rickety wagons, or stagger- 
ing along on foot, was something never to be for- 
gotten. 

People had come from far and near to see the train- 
ing ; and among them was a man from the wild district, 
who, not content with the punch, had procured a small 
jug of rum to take home. He was standing near the 
tavern door, leaning against a pillar of the veranda, 
and keeping a tight hold of his precious jug. His dis- 
ordered hair, the spasms of muscular action in his face, 
the unsteady movements of his knees, which seemed 
inclined to double under him, and the alternate come 
and go of light in his foxy eyes, showed that he had 
long passed the safety line of self-possession, and was 
heading for some catastrophe. Two men from his 
neighborhood observed him, and came near. 



146 QUABBIN 

"Harv," said one, "where yeou goin*? What ye got 
in thet ere jug ? " 

**My name ain't Harv," said the drunken man with a 
vicious assumption of dignity. '' Yeou know tJict ! 
Wher'm I goin' ? I'm goin' hum — when I git ready; 
an' what I've got in this ere jug ain't nothin' to no- 
body." 

The friend pursued, — 

'' Naow, don't yer git furus fer nothin', Harvey. I 
was 'feard yeou was goin' ter try walkin' home alone ; 
an' the road's rough, an' it's goin' ter be dark ez a 
pocket 'fore yeou git then" 

"Thet's so," said the other neighbor. ''Don't yeou 
start alone. Yeou jest go 'long 'ith us." 

'' I k'n walk," said Harvey, "an' I know the road. I 
c'd f oiler it 'ith my eyes shet, an' my ban's tied behind 
me." 

"Naow, Harvey, hear tu reason! I don't say yer 
can't walk, an' don't know the road, — on'y 't '11 be 
safer fer ye ter hev company." 

But Harvey couldn't be "druv," as he said ; and, irri- 
tated at the imputation of being unfit to take care of 
himself, he started off, covering a good part of the 
breadth of the road as he went. It was a long way 
he had to go, and it was pitch dark when he reached 
the hilly region. He called for a moment at the house 
of an acquaintance, and from there, against all persua- 
sion, started across-lots upon a path sufficiently difficult 
for a sober man in daylight. The event happened which 
was expected. He strayed out of the path, stumbled, 
and fell over a precipice, and next morning was found 
dead, his stiffened hand still grasping the handle of the 
broken jug. 



THE SECOND MINISTER 1 47 

The new minister went out to attend the funeral. 
There was a great gathering, especially of the class to 
which the dead man had belonged. There were far too 
many for the small and cheerless house to hold ; so, 
while the family sat in the room with the coffin, the 
neighbors remained outside, and the minister con- 
ducted the services in the open air, standing on a 
log by the wood-pile. When he came to address the 
mourners, it was said that never a battery with grape- 
shot threw a crowd into such consternation. He was 
by nature sympathetic, but he was courageous, and ter- 
ribly in earnest. He repeated with thrilling emphasis 
the woes denounced in the Old Testament against 
drunkards ; and never, perhaps, since the days of the 
prophets, did they appear so dazzling with menace, so 
mighty in power. The effect was indescribable. Some 
were so angry that they threatened violence ; but, aside 
from the respect due to his calling, there was some- 
thing in the look of the minister that repelled aggression. 
He told them of their brutal neglect of their wives and 
children ; he described their homes without comfort, 
their lives without dignity or respect, with the poor- 
house, the jail, and the pauper's grave before them. 
He told them of their want of manliness, and the need 
they had of the sustaining power of religion, and warned 
them of the wrath to come. Then he painted the de- 
lio-hts of home as it should be, when the master of the 
house is a man, *' clothed and in his right mind." He 
appealed to the women, of whom many were present, 
and all the tenderness of his heart broke forth. Before 
he had done there were sobs and groans. Then he 
prayed. Beyond this point it would not be right to 
follow him ; but the reader can imagine the fervency of 



148 



QUABBIN 



that prayer from the simple fact that the children who 
had heard him pray when he came to visit their school 
had more than once at the end of his prayer found the 
scat of the chair by which he had knelt sprinkled with 
tears. What a glowing heart he had ! It is not often 
that a strong man weeps ! Precious tears they were, 
not unnoticed, perhaps, by the All-pitying Eye. 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 149 



•CHAPTER XVII 

THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 

The death of Harvey, and the startling scene at his 
funeral, made a prodigious talk in Ouabbin and in the 
surrounding towns. The tragedy had furnished the 
ardent preacher with the opportunity and the text with 
which to reach the consciences of men who stood in 
need of warning. Such an audience could have been 
gathered in no ordinary way ; and up to that time there 
had been no man ready and able to stand up, with a 
wood-pile for a pulpit, and set before a set of drunken 
reprobates a true picture of themselves and their des- 
tiny. It was a scene upon which one might imagine 
the angels of light and the powers of darkness to be 
looking as upon a life-and-death struggle ; for the future 
of Ouabbin and of its people was to be decided there. 
Would this courageous young man, who stood up be- 
fore that angry crowd, be able to reach their hard 
hearts, and gain entrance for the Spirit of God } Time 
was to show. 

There was another "vv^arning" which made a deep 
impression, though not in such a dramatic way. The 
tavern-keeper was injured by a horse, and died within 
two or three days. He was not intemperate, but not a 
church-member, and, aside from his business, was uni- 
versally liked. Personally, he could have had little 



ISO QUABBIN- 

sympathy with the weak or dissolute people who fre- 
quented his bar; on the other hand, he could not have 
had any very warm feeling for the minister and the 
leading church-members who were attacking his busi- 
ness, and arraying the moral forces of the town in a 
way to push dram-sellers and dram-drinkers into out- 
lawry. The reader will remember the story of the clock 
in a former chapter. The minister was not supersti- 
tious, and perhaps never heard the story; but he 
believed and taught the doctrine of a particular provi- 
dence, and the sudden death of the tavern-keeper was 
** improved " with such earnestness that all the town 
rang with the echo. 

Gradually the church became a body of total ab- 
stainers ; and the drinkers, even if they were not scan- 
dalously intemperate, were pushed out of the commun- 
ion. Before many years there was a great change 
throughout the town ; the incorrigible were removed 
by death, and others took warning. The town-meet- 
ings became more orderly ; the riotous trainings were 
given up, and an old race-course, two miles down on 
the river road, was planted with corn. After a time 
some who had been excommunicated came back, chast- 
ened and penitent, and lived godly lives ever afterward. 

At these blessed changes all Ouabbin smiled with 
greener fields, and with brighter and purer homes. 
Even the wild north-west district became peaceable, and 
the sessions of the justice's court were rare. The 
dwellers upon the outlying farms, though necessarily 
poor on account of the sterile soil, and not highly edu- 
cated then or since, became Sunday worshippers and 
good citizens. The old savagery was going by. 

This was the work of the second minister, for the 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 151 

impulse came from him, but it was not wholly accom- 
plished in his day. 

At the beginning he wis almost alone, and year 
after year there were new efforts to be made ; and at 
each successive reform that was attempted new oppo- 
sition and new enmities were aroused. The long 
struggle was wearing to a man of delicate frame and 
high-strung nerves. 

Among the last to be civilized were the youths from 
fourteen to eighteen years of age. At the singing- 
schools, spelling-schools, and other festive occasions, 
these young savages spoiled the pleasure of all decent 
people. It was their chief object in life to organize 
rebellion in the district schools; and where they were 
numerous it was not uncommon to have a change of 
masters once or twice in the course of a winter session. 
They would make the master's life a burden by inces- 
sant annoyances, such as filling the house with smoke, 
by putting a cover on the chimney, or they would lock 
the door and bar the windows ; and sometimes when he 
attempted to punish them they would set upon him 
with fists and feet. The masters were commonly young, 
and often were college students who were compelled 
by poverty to leave their studies for a term to earn 
something. The pay was so small that no one would 
think of making teaching a profession, and there was 
usually but one session of thirteen weeks in the year. 
The master of a country school received from seven- 
teen to twenty-five dollars per month and his board ; 
about the wages of a farmer's hired man. The board 
was ambulatory, — a week with this family, and a few 
days with that, according to the number of pupils in 
each. *' Boarding around " gave a teacher a lively im- 



152 QUAE BIN 

pression of the generosity and meanness of mankind, 
and of the comforts and discomforts of country life. 
The temptation to linger where there was good fare 
and the company of pretty girls was generally irresistible. 
A night in a fireless bedroom, with the glass below 
zero ; a morning wash in water from a basin crusted 
with ice ; toiling to subdue a thick shock of hair that 
crackled with electricity; struggling with buttons while 
red fingers were stiffened with cold — such were the 
experiences of many a young teacher. After breakfast 
he might have to walk, perhaps half a mile, perhaps a 
mile and a half, through mid-leg depths of new-fallen 
snow, and would be fortunate if he found the school- 
room warm. If the fire had not been made, as some- 
times happened, it would be necessary to cut the wood 
that was provided, — often green, sappy, and ice-coated, 
— and wait for a slowly struggling blaze. Then he 
might have to wedge loose windows to keep out the 
draughts that cut the faces and necks of those sitting 
near them as with icy knives. Then pupils were to be' 
given turns near the stove, alternating with banishment 
to the Arctic corners, where the chattering of teeth w^as 
constant and irrepressible. Until the roaring cast-iron 
stove became red, and the ice-frescoed windows were 
thawed, any effective study was impossible. Often the 
softening process occupied most of the morning hours. 
It will be believed that the task of the master, and of 
the pupils, was hard enough when good humor, good 
order, and obedience reigned. What maddening per- 
plexity was it when a herd of half-washed fellows, with 
wild hair, bovine odor, and unpardonable boots, broke 
every rule, destroyed the indispensable quiet, burned 
offensive matters upon the stove, expectorated over the 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 1 53 

floor, " sarsed " the master, delighted in making the tall 
girls blush, and the small ones cry, and finally precipi- 
tated a " row," which made further exercises impossible! 
Sometimes, however, they met their match. There 
was a school from which two masters had been 
''bounced," which was nevertheless conquered and 
held in order by a resolute young woman without the 
least trouble. 

This teacher had the good sense to begin without 
laying down any rules, so that she was not obliged to 
take up a breach of order unless it were worth while. 
Her demeanor showed that she was courageous, and 
that, if she were to be overcome, it would have to be 
done by brute force ; and the boys did not like the 
idea of laying hands upon a woman. She was busy 
with ins'truction, instead of lecturing upon order ; and, 
as she had the gift of making lessons interesting, the 
pupils had not so much time to meditate upon mis- 
chief. The very first case of deliberate misbehavior 
was taken in hand, and the offender soundly punished 
then and there ; it was not her policy to wait, so as to 
allow of a combination of evil-doers. By firmness and 
tact the turbulent fellows were guided into studious 
habits, and any outbreak was checked without a mo- 
ment's delay. After two days of her rule the behavior 
of the school was such as to leave little to be desired. 

The summer schools, also of three months, were 
kept by young women, generally inoffensive and un- 
burdened by useless learning, and were composed of 
girls, and of such barefooted boys as were not wanted 
for hoeing corn or in the haying-field. In such schools 
no deep problem disturbed the simple course of things. 
It was a matter of rote in reading and spelling, with a 



154 QUAE BIN 

skimming of "joccgafry," and some cautious ventures 
in arithmetic, the teacher taking care not to get out of 
soundings. 

There were other conditions in school life of which 
it is impossible to write, and which cannot be recalled 
without shame. 

The sweeping was done by pupils in turn, as was 
the making of a fire. Dusting was unknown. The 
desks were profusely and deeply sculptured. The walls 
were adorned with charcoal sketches, and the ceiling 
with bosses of papier-mache, made adhesive by small 
jaws, and then projected from popguns. For drinking, 
there was a tin dipper, and a pail containing water 
brought from a neighbor's house. How nauseous the 
taste of that warm fluid after standing some hours in 
pine wood ! and what a smell came from the greasy tin 
dipper ! 

The state of the schools, it is evident, was wretched, 
and the standard of attainment low. Farmers' sons 
had practically but three months in the year for their 
education, after they were old enough to help in field, 
pasture, or garden ; and the limit of age was rarely 
favorable to the boy. In the centre district, boys at- 
tended the summer schools as well ; but few of the 
female teachers were strong in arithmetic, or had the 
power to give lagging pupils the needful sJiove ; and 
the summer tuition was, even for girls, a feeble and 
profitless thing. The methods of instruction were in- 
efficient in all the schools, for the teachers generally 
were qualified neither by knowledge or experience. 
The range of study was limited, and, with the constant 
changes, no real progress was possible. Classification, 
too, was out of the question. Forward boys of eight 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 155 

and ten years of age might be in a class with great 
hulking fellows of from fourteen to nineteen, — belated 
scholars who were striving to escape from utter illiter- 
acy, with but few months in which to accomplish it. 
A small classmate would prompt them when they came 
to hard words in reading, and help them with their 
*'sums" in arithmetic. They wer^ untidy, odorous of 
the stable, coarse, honest, and dull, — void of mathe- 
matical and literary sense. No other scholars fretted 
over their tasks as they did, and few to so little pur- 
pose. In return for help, they protected their small 
friend from the bullying of boys who were larger and 
more pugnacious, and now and then brought him a 
" broadsword " or a " signifide " apple. The broad- 
sword apple tasted like a rich pear, and the other name 
was a corruption of *' seek-no-further." 

The use of the ferule was so common that under 
some masters the best-intentioned boy could not escape 
having his hands blistered every few days. 

When a boy's early schooling was under so many 
different teachers the results were mere shreds and 
patches, and progress in a right line was out of the 
question. 

There was never any provision for higher education 
in the public schools. Gramm.ar was a mechanical 
exercise without any living links with literary compo- 
sition, and with small effect on daily speech. The study 
of geography was limited to a short treatise with wholly 
inadequate maps. The chief instruction was in arith- 
metic, especially in Colburn's " Mental Arithmetic," 
which was far superior to the books which have suc- 
ceeded it. 

Those who had aspirations for learning got some 



156 QUABBIN 

light now and then from the private *' select schools " 
opened for a term by needy college students, to which 
pupils were admitted on payment of a fee. Several 
masters came to Ouabbin sixty years ago, whose memo- 
ries live in the hearts of grateful youths. In such 
schools one might begin the Latin grammar, read 
yEsop's Fables, and study algebra and elementary 
geometry ; and though the term came to an end all too 
soon, the good seed was sown which in later years 
might spring up and bear fruit. 

With suitable books it is seldom difficult for an in- 
telligent pupil to master a science unaided. What is 
needed is the impulse, and that generally comes from 
an intellectual superior. Very little book-knov/ledge 
is acquired, either in a school or university, which 
could not be acquired at home ; so that if the purpose 
of the higher education were merely to store the 
memory with facts, the costly machinery might be 
dispensed with. But the true use of education is to fit 
a man for action in his chosen sphere, for which 
special training, readiness, and energy are necessary; 
and for this it is of the highest importance that the 
pupil should receive a forward impulse from contact 
with some great mind. The chief benefit of a univer- 
sity is that in its staff of teachers and lecturers are 
included some of the eminent scientific and literary 
men of the age. More than one naturalist has been 
determined in his vocation by a current of electric 
energy from Agassiz. That man's personality was so 
grand, and such influence radiated from him, that 
pupils were kindled by his enthusiasm, and ever after- 
ward looked upon the world of animate nature with 
anointed eyes. W^hoever had Child or Longfellow or 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 1 57 

Lowell for guides in literature, acquired keen percep- 
tion and a taste for the best models. A mathematician 
or astronomer who in his youth met Benjamin Peirce, 
owed an incalculable debt to that man's soaring ima- 
gination, no less than to his masterly expositions. A 
university that has no great men deserves to have no 
students. Grinding in classics and mathematics can be 
done anywhere. 

No contact with the immortal energy of genius, it 
is true, was possible in Quabbin ; but the masters of 
the occasional " select schools " brou2rht somethinc: of 
the light of letters and science into that region ; and 
though the bearers were young and inexperienced, and 
the light came in fitful and feeble flashes, it was a 
brilliant change from immemorial dulness and gloom. 
Pupils who had once begun with liberal studies could 
never thereafter be content with the old ideas. The 
glimpses they got of the world of letters and art drew 
them on irresistibly. The ''mute, inglorious" masters 
in Quabbin and elsewhere probably never knew what a 
movement they had begun, nor recognized the fact that 
they were instruments in the hands of Divine Provi- 
dence in civilizing a State. 

While a few pupils — a very few — were reaching 
up toward the light, the great number were settled 
in half-civilized ignorance, steeped in bucolic thought 
and manners, and cherishing an immitigable prejudice, 
verging on hate, toward all youths with superior attain- 
ments and honorable ambition. 

Any attempts to improve the public schools were 
stubbornly resisted; first, by those whose instinct is to 
oppose all improvements, in which class a great many 
well-meaning persons are included; secondly, by those 



158 QUABBIN 

who objected to any increase of taxes. Any talk of 
new methods of teaching stirred up old-fashioned peo- 
ple ; and it was obvious that, if schools were main- 
tained the whole year, a much larger sum of money 
must be raised. 

The second minister visited the schools in every 
district ; but inspection, though it may reveal defects, 
does not always cure them. He, with the leading men 
of the village, made strenuous efforts to begin the 
work of reform ; but the country people, aided by the 
dead weight of the *' otherwise minded," were too 
strong. Nothing of any consequence was done while 
the second minister and his immediate successor re- 
mained. It was some years later that Horace Mann, 
Secretary of the Board of Education, accomplished the 
work which has immortalized him, — the reorganization 
of the school system of Massachusetts; and it was in 
the reign of the fourth minister of Quabbin that the 
new influences were felt in town-meetings, and the 
public schools began to be more worthy of an intelli- 
gent people. 

The second minister had some disagreeable experi- 
ences. The knocker of his front door was often vio- 
lently pulled at night, and when the door was opened 
no one was found there. One day, being a member 
of the town committee, he visited the central district 
school. A boy young in years, but precocious in mis- 
chief, continually disturbed the recitations, and was 
daring as well as fertile in expedients. The teacher 
seemed unable to keep the little rebel quiet, and at 
last the minister was incautious enough to take the 
matter in hand. ''Come here !" he exclaimed, with his 
eyes fixed on the offender. '' Is the examination to be 



\ 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 159 

interrupted by one bad boy ? " The boy came into the 
centre of the room, unabashed, and grinning like a lit- 
tle fiend. *' Are you going to be quiet ? " No answer 
but a defiant blaze in the eyes. " Will you promise to 
be quiet .'' " The boy was still silent, but glowing with 
temper. The minister took him by the shoulder, made 
him crouch upon the floor, and then, taking his chair, 
put it over the boy so that he was enclosed as in a 
cage, and sat down in it. The fact that he could be 
easily put under a chair showed how small the boy was'. 

The lessons were resumed, and there was quiet, ex- 
cept for occasional *' snickers " at the grimaces made 
by the imprisoned culprit. The minster's hand hung 
carelessly at his side. Suddenly he started up and ut- 
tered a cry of pain that rang through the room. The 
boy had bitten the back of his hand until the teeth met 
under the skin, and blood was flowing profusely. The 
hand was bound with a handkerchief, and the minis- 
ter went on with the examination as if nothing had 
happened. 

There was another trait of savagery lingering in the 
time of the second minister, — the wanton destruction 
of animal life. 

The brooks were full of spotted trout ; dace played in 
the swirlhig water below the dam ; perch and roach 
swarmed in the pond ; in the deep and dark places were 
horn-pouts and eels; snouted pickerel lurked under the 
lily-pads of the cove ; and in the West Branch suckers 
were speared on spring nights by the light of pitch-pine 
torches. Nothing so exciting or picturesque attends 
the young fisherman to-day; the streams are mostly 
depopulated, and it is sad for the boys. 

Moreover, in the old times, minks and musquashes 



l6o QUAE BIN 

frequented the rivers, and were caught in steel traps, 
baited with sweet apple. Expert sportsmen snared 
pigeons and partridges, and shot foxes, squirrels, rab- 
bits, and wild ducks. There were still plenty of rac- 
coons, and there were traditions of wild turkeys, but 
few, if any, of the latter remained sixty years ago. 

The wanton destruction of life took place in the an- 
nual *' bird-hunt," generally set for Old Election Day. 
These were matches between sportsmen (''hunters") 
of adjoining towns, a specified number on each side. A 
day was appointed for the meet, to which each party 
brought a bag of heads of birds and of small wild ani- 
mals. The creatures might be shot anywhere, but only 
by members of the company, and on the day or days 
specified in the agreement. Each large head was 
counted for so much, according to size and rarity ; the 
smaller kinds were simply numbered. When the bags 
had been counted, the losing party entertained the 
winners at a supper and frolic at the tavern. 

When the bags were opened, and the heaps of sev- 
ered and bloody heads were spread out, it was a sight 
to make a compassionate man heart-sick. There were 
heads of bluejays, squirrels, song-sparrows, copper- 
crowns, orioles, minks, scarlet tanagers, woodpeckers, 
foxes, robins (red-breasted migratory thrushes), yellow 
birds, swallows, finches, crows, red-winged blackbirds, 
wood-pigeons, whippoorwills, hawks, kingfishers, wood- 
chucks, eagles, owls, wagtails, herons, snipe, dippers, 
woodcocks, wrens, and many more ; every bright eye 
closed, and the beautiful plumage dabbled and crushed. 
It was sad for any reflecting person, even a child, to 
think of the blotting-out of so much beauty, the 
extinction of gayety and song. And these hundreds 



THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN l6l 

of bright creatures, the joy of field, garden, and orch- 
ard, were blown to pieces with shot, to decide which of 
two sets of young ruffians should pay for the supper 
and drink of the other. 

This destruction had gone on for years, and the 
region for many years after was not peopled with birds 
as in the early days. Longfellow had not then written 
"The Birds of Killingworth ; " but the humane spirit of 
that poem was innate in the heart of the minister, and 
he was unsparing in his denunciation of the useless 
cruelty. For once the popular feeling was with him, 
and the "bird-hunters" found they could not pursue 
their sport without reprobation. All kindly people, 
even children, mourned the gay minstrels ; farmers 
missed their friends, the destroyers of worms and 
insects in garden and orchard ; and most young men in 
time were ashamed of the slaughter. Nearly all birds 
in Massachusetts are now protected by law, but public 
sentiment is a still more efficient safeguard ; and in 
Quabbin public sentiment on this subject was in great 
part the creation of this tender-hearted parish minister. 



1 62 QUAE BIN 



CHAPTER XVIII 

SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 

Preparations for the day of rest were begun the 
day previous. Farmers made ready, as far as possible, 
for the care of their animals, and got a supply of wood 
into the house. Women baked bread and prepared 
dishes, and attended to darning and mending, so as to 
leave a minimum of work for the holy day. In the 
evening the Bible lessons were studied, and at the 
close diligent children were allowed roasted apples 
and fresh cider. 

In the morning the household was called betimes, 
and all underwent an energetic scrubbing ; after which 
special attention was paid to frizzled hair, and putting 
on clean clothing. After breakfast came prayers, and 
then the young people read the Bible or studied the 
Catechism for an hour. The morning service v/as at 
half-past ten o'clock, and lasted until noon, or a little 
later. Afterward came the Sunday-school ; and the 
lessons, with comments and exhortations, occupied an 
hour. Then those who lived near enough to the meet- 
ing-house hurried home for a lunch. This consisted of 
bread and milk, or bread and butter, with a section 
(60°) of pie, and some fruit preserves or apple-sauce. 
Those who lived at a distance brought luncheon bas- 
kets, and ate (solemnly) sitting in their pews, or, in cold 



SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 1 63 

weather, by the stoves. The afternoon service began 
at two o'clock, and lasted an hour and a half. Then 
there was a dispersion, for there was nothing more to 
be done at the meeting-house. Not that the observ- 
ances were finished, by any means. Arriving home,^ 
each family sat down between four and five o'clock to 
a repast, mostly cold, the principal dish having been 
cooked the day before. At seven o'clock there was a 
prayer-meeting in a hall illumined by smoky whale-oil 
lamps ; and this continued according to circumstances, 
— such as the number and length of the prayers, and 
the fervor and fluency of exhortation. There was no 
rule of procedure, and a favorite hymn might be 
expected at any moment. 

All the intervals between services were occupied by 
religious reading or study. When night fell at last, it 
seemed to children that the bell in the meeting-house 
steeple had been ringing all day ; that services had 
been going on all day, and that they had read the Bible 
and Catechism all day. 

Besides the four Sunday services, there was regularly 
a week-day prayer-meeting, and a monthly concert of 
prayer for missionaries. At this last there were read 
extracts from the Missionary Herald, — being experi- 
ences among the heathen, — and the hymn, "From 
Greenland's Icy Mountains," was always sung with 
great enthusiasm. 

The people, old and young, were kept well up to their 
work. In strict households Sunday was the most fatigu- 
ino- and the most wearisome day of the week. It was 
no"t in any sense a day of rest. The constant reading 
of the Bible by young people, as a task, destroyed all 
sense of its power and beauty ; and in committmg texts 



1 64 QUABDIN 

to memory the only care was for accuracy ; the mean- 
ing and the lesson of a passage were scarcely thought 
of. There was not much relief when children turned 
from the Bible and Catechism to the Sunday-school 
library, a dreary collection of books kept at the meet- 
* ing-house. The most interesting of them were lives of 
missionaries, as they sometimes gave a whiff of spicy 
breezes, and glimpses of the romance of the East. The 
most odious were biographies of precocious saints, 
sickly little sages of the nursery, who, because they 
had weak chests and spindling legs, renounced ball and 
marbles, and alt the sports that healthy children love ; 
who talked of ecstatic experiences and divine m3\steries 
as glibly as if repeating the multiplication-table ; whose 
consumptive looks indicated a speedy release from a 
world in which they could never have borne a manly 
part, and who each left behind a lying tombstone and a 
pretentious memoir for the affliction and disgust of 
hearty boys. 

Bible lessons were studied in the Old Testament 
quite as often as in the New. It was a grave error. 
The calmly indecent stories of Hebrew patriarchs, 
prophets, and kings were shocking to the moral sense 
of the young, who had been led to suppose that justice, 
truth, chastity, and honor were in the past, the present, 
and future the same. The biblical plainness of speech 
was revolting. Many things w€re stumbled upon which 
were not understood, and in regard to which a suspi- 
cion was as gross and foul as the fact. A generous- 
minded youth naturally sympathized with the dusky 
Hagar and her son, and not at all with the bigamist 
Abraham and his hoity-toity Sarah. Like the Quaker 
boy (Whittier), he could not see why David was a man 



SUA'DAV OBSERVANCES 1 65 

after God's own heart, since he was a man of war, and 
full of treachery also. He could not make it right that 
the Lord permitted a lying spirit to beguile Ahab to 
his ruin. In fact, there were no end to the queries, 
the doubts, the incipient rebellions, and the flushes of 
secret shame that came to an ingenuous boy who read 
the old books in course, and never skipped a chapter, 
verse, or word. 

Much is said of the license of speech in the drama, 
but there are few plays in any language which contain 
as much that is shocking as certain portions of Scrip- 
ture. The influence of these narratives, never meant 
for babes, is especially baneful, because it forms base 
associations in minds wholly unable to relegate things 
to their proper places. 

A boy in Ouabbin, some six or eight years old, was 
being questioned by a spruce country damsel upon the 
story of Rahab the harlot. '' Please, miss," said he, 
'' what is a harlot .'* " 

There were often brambly experiences also in ques- 
tions bearing on the Jewish ceremonial law. 

When the first day of the week, instead of being a 
blessed day of rest, is occupied with hard work, without 
a moment for a bright thought or memory ; wdien fancy 
cannot spread a pinion, and the eyes are forbidden to 
look for beauty in bird or flower or cloud, that day is 
the darkest of the seven. The days, on the contrary, 
that are not '* hallowed " are relieved by buoyant spirits, 
and ''labor meets delight half way." 

It is freely admitted how much the people of New 
England owe to Bible study and religious training; the 
noble result cannot be gainsaid ; on the other hand, 
many got such a surfeit of Scripture in youth, that it 



1 66 QUAE BIN 

required years to bring them to a just appreciation of 
the -poetry of the Psahiis, or of the philosophy of Job. 
A similar distaste was produced by the use in schools 
of "Paradise Lost" for exercises in parsing. The inspi- 
ration and splendor of Milton's lines, after they were 
pulled to thrums in grammatical analysis, departed for- 
ever. 

It would be easy to make a book of selections from 
the Old Testament for the use of families. The mate- 
rial is abundant, and of the highest ethical and literary 
value. The details of the ceremonial law, and some of 
the bald narratives, might be left for mature readers. 
The perusal by children of the entire series of works as 
they stand is a source of evil for wdiich there can be no 
compensation. 

In those early days the meeting-house was warmed 
in winter by two box stoves set under the choir gallery, 
but the greater part of the interior was as cold as the 
adjacent graveyard. Those who sat in the pews near 
the pulpit were almost at freezing-point. The rigor 
was tempered for women by the use of little foot-stoves, 
which were square boxes of perforated tinned iron, 
fitted in wooden frames with wire handles, and contain- 
ing small iron basins filled with live coals bedded in 
ashes. The foot-stove had not much warmth, but it 
served as a foot-stool, and kept the feet from freezing. 
The men disdained such coddling, and boys were sup- 
posed to be tough ; but on cold days both men and 
boys found that the sermon had a great many heads. 

In summer the coolness of the audience-room with 
its window-blinds was grateful, but many hard-working 
men furtively dozed, suspiciously nodded with sudden, 
periodic jerks, and sometimes openly snored. To be 



SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 16/ 

sleepy during sermon-time was the universal failing. 
It was the custom on warm Sundays to carry sprigs of 
caraway, or dill, or coriander, to nibble at when the eye- 
lids inclined to droop. The efforts to ward off slum- 
ber were frequently amusing. A man would often be 
seen straightening up with a surprised look when his 
wife gave his elbow a nudge. One old man had what 
appeared to be an automatic alarm. The top of his 
head was bald, and the long, thin hair at the sides was 
brought up and braided in a central line from crown to 
forehead, and, along with it, a something that looked 
like a shoestring. When he nodded, the ends of the 
string fell in his eyes, whereupon he waked and re- 
stored the equilibrium. Twenty times in the course of 
a sermon his head fell, and as often the dangling ends 
of string restored him to consciousness and propriety. 

One fat old fellow, who looked as if he would dis- 
solve if he should venture to take a very hot bath, 
seemed always in luxurious ease, since any part of him 
would have served for a cushion. His chin ran over 
in successive folds upon his cravat, and the cravat was 
pressed down to his broad chest. Meanwhile, his eyes 
softly closed, then half opened, then closed again, as if 
controlled by some interior spring independent of his 
volition. He slept while the choir sang, slept stand- 
ing while the minister prayed, and seated while he 
preached. It was not only his soft-lidded eyes that 
slept ; he slept all over ; and the gospel rain fell upon 
him soothingly, like showers on the roof of Morpheus. 
It was averred that he had been seen to doze in the 
slow and closely packed procession that moved down 
the aisle at the close of service. 

The old fellow with ugly and grotesque features, he 



1 68 QUA B BIN 

whose head rested for so many years against the white 
pilaster in the west gallery, did his share of sleeping. 
The sharp and grave lawyer sometimes nodded. In 
fact, there were few, except the deacons and certain 
alert and sprightly women, who did not occasionally 
close their eyes after '' sixthly." 

The choir numbered twenty or thirty persons, and 
was recruited every two or three years from the sing- 
ing-school. There was a peripatetic master who came 
at intervals to teach beginners in the science, and to 
revive the interest and practice of the choir. Like 
most singing-teachers, he had one of those perfunctory 
voices which sound equally forced in every part ; but his 
violin was true and smooth. He brought out fairly 
good results as to harmony, but of individual culture 
not much could be said. Soldiers are best drilled in 
squads ; singers, singly. He had fiery red hair, and 
the keen enthusiasm which generally goes with it, and 
for some reason was called "Colonel." It was his 
custom in his schools to vary the monotony of psalmody 
by the occasional singing of English glees, such as 
" Here in Cool Grot," '' Hail, Smiling Morn," and others, 
dear to many generations. Had one of the choir in 
Ouabbin been asked to sing a solo, the attack, the 
tone, or pronunciation, might have caused a smile upon 
a cultivated audience ; but when the choir was in prac- 
tice, the solid harmony was not without charm. It was 
in set hymns, like Dr. Madan's ''Before Jehovah's 
Awful Throne," that the best effects were produced. 
The choir had its ups and downs ; singers fell off, 
either from age or removal ; practice was given up, and 
the style wofully deteriorated ; then would come a new 
session of the singing-school, and, at the end of it, the 



SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 1 69 

colonel would lead the new flock of warblers into the 
meetmg'-house, and the people were astonished with 
the renewed life and energy. 

In remoter times the choir-leader used to give the 
pitch from his tuning-fork with a brusque " fum, s'la 
fum-m-m!" Afterward there were instruments, — a 
flute, bass-viol, or double bass, and sometimes a grum- 
bling bassoon or serpent. 

The choir-leader was chosen or approved by the 
parish committee ; and one Sunday when a change had 
been agreed upon, but, by inadvertence, notice had not 
been given, both the old leader and the new stood up 
when the morning psalm was read, and gave out each 
a different tune, and sounded a different pitch. For a 
moment it seemed that the frame of the universe had 
cracked ; but the small boys thought it was great fun. 
The new leader, however, had the battalion with him, 
and the voice of the superseded and crestfallen one 
was speedily drowned. 

Sixty years ago the music of the Bridgewater Col- 
lection, or Billings and Holden, was in fashion, and 
there were frequent fugues, noisy and perverted reminis- 
cences of Handel, or at times the quaint and melan- 
choly strains of Ravenscroft, or the reverent and 
tender harmonies of Purcell. After that came the 
Boston Academy's Collection, consisting of music 
drawn from all schools and all sources, including gems 
from operas, symphonies, and sonatas ; but all was tem- 
pered into monotony by cutting out any melodic orna- 
ments, and by suppressing anything rich or inventive in 
harmony. It was a joy to sopranos to find melodies 
without surprises, that would sing of themselves. And 
the basses, too, all knew what was coming ; their track 



I/O QUABBIN 

was no more intricate than that of a blind horse in a 
mill. Every chord was of the tonic or dominant, with 
simple mutations and invariable terminations. Such 
tunes had a cloying sweetness and even flow. Then, 
again, the people of Ouabbin had not heard operas ; 
and melodies from " The Magic Flute," *' Don Gio- 
vanni," and *'Der Frieschiitz," were for them as sacred 
as any. Zerlina's '' Batti batti'' became indissolubly 
linked with the hymn, " Saviour, Source of Every 
Blessing." As Wesley said, "It was a pity that the 
Devil should have all the best music." 

The leading soprano was a broad-chested and buxom 
young lady, with a clear and powerful voice, and little 
delicacy in phrasing. She used to run over the high 
places, especially when she had a line to sing alone, 
like a kid capering over the rocks. The voice of the 
leading contralto was as soft and deep as the cooing of a 
dove, — a rich and velvety voice. When the two women 
sang a brief duet, — the chorus waiting to pounce in 
with a roar, — what a silence in the meeting-house! 
The contralto held her own, without undue self-asser- 
tion ; the soprano took the lead with a dash, like the 
enterprising person she was, and the people generally 
agreed that she was a great singer. 

As time went on, although there was less rudeness in 
performance, there was a decline in the character of the 
compositions sung. The old music was not refined and 
not artistic, but it had spirit and energy ; while the 
adaptations which followed were frequently vapid and 
colorless chamres runGT on few notes, with harmonies so 
little varied, that the impression made by one tune was 
just like that of every other. The jerky Zeunerian 
school had sway in many places, but never prevailed in 
Ouabbin. 



SUNDAY OBSERVANCES I71 

On the whole, modern church music has had the 
slenderest relation to art. There are well-defined 
schools of sacred music, — those of the Catholic and 
Episcopalian services, and the old German chorals. 
Each is adapted to the required uses. But the patch- 
work, hurdy-gurdy school, full of reminiscences of 
operas, negro-songs, revivalist melodies, and instru- 
mental gems, with all manner of unsaintly associa- 
tions, and with no fitness to any devout sentiment, — 
that '^ school " which has long infested New England 
and Scotland, should now be put under ban. It is not 
artistic, and it is a libel upon the worship of God. 

While upon the subject of church music, it may be 
well to mention a memorable concert given in the meet- 
ing-house during the reign of the third minister, to cele- 
brate the conclusion of a singing-school. A large 
number of new faces appeared in the singers' seats, 
for the school had been fully attended, and the drill 
had been long and thorough. The colonel was in great 
form, and looked proudly over his forces, among which 
were some half-dozen instrumentalists. 

There were the usual anthems and choruses attacked 
and carried through with stormy bravery, in which the 
sopranos and basses (as usual) made the lion's share 
of noise. There was an instrumental interlude, in 
which two flutes had the leading part, partly because 
the hesitation of the other players sometimes left un- 
certain gaps. And there was an English trio, *' When 
Time was Entwining the Garland of Years," in which 
the deep, cooing notes of the contralto were delightful. 
The sensation of the evening, however, was caused by 
the performances of a double-bass player, imported 
for the occasion. His legitimate work was excellent, 



1/2 QUAE BIN 

for he produced firm and smooth tones, but his pride 
was in showy solos. A space was made for him in 
the front of the gallery, so that he could be seen by 
the audience below. Those who remember Bottesini 
will have an idea of the effects produced. The hero of 
this concert was not a Bottesini, but he was clever and 
comic. He covered all the range of expression from 
the serious to the ridiculous, and he imitated various 
animals, as well as instruments from a great organ-pipe 
to a picolo. Now and then would come out a passage 
of masculine beauty, followed by strange staccato leaps 
and plunges, or by swift, fantastic, or chromatic scales. 

In action he was a pantomimist ; his body, head, and 
arms were in violent motion, like those of a jointed 
manikin in exercise, as he bent far over his huge in- 
strument, or darted up while his fingers tripped along 
the strings. The muscles of his face were tense, and 
he plied the stout bow like a fiend. If hearers were 
moved to admiration at times by a grand strain, they 
were sure to laugh the next minute at some tripping 
dance music, or rasping eccentricity, or grotesque imi- 
tation ; but he always closed with han-nonics, round 
and fine as the highest notes of a violin. Before he 
finished, he had captivated everybody, and the sense of 
comedy so overpowered the sacred associations of the 
place, that there was a universal ripple of laughter. 

A tumultuous chorus, with plentiful hosannas, 
brought the concert to an end. The boys thought 
the show better than a menagerie. 

The minister sat at the communion-table in front of 
the pulpit, and appeared to be satisfied with himself 
and the concert. But the deacons were deeply stirred, 
and they had a short conference as they were leaving 
the meeting-house. Said Deacon Rawson, — 



SU.VBAV OBSERVANCES 1/3 

an' 



" Fer my part, I feel 'shamed fer hevin' seen 
heered these goin's on, thet I du." 

"An' in the haouse o' God, tu," added Deacon 
Dodge. 

"It hed a'most orter be new dedicated," suggested 

Deacon Holyoke. 

" Haow could we look fer a revivle o' trew religion 
ter foller sech a monkey show?" said Deacon Rawson. 

"An thet air colonel," said Deacon Dodge, "told 
us 'twas ter be a pufformance o' sacred mewsic, same 
ez the singin' on a Sahberday." 

" Ef a soul was called on to give its 'count ter-night, 
arter thet foolishness ! " said Deacon Rawson with a 
solemn sigh. 

Deacon Holyoke observed tentatively, "Them air 
fleutes played well." 

"But why," asked Deacon Rawson, " sh'd they go a- 
tweedlin' like two sparrers, flutt'rin' an' tumblin' raound 
one nuther in the air } " 

"The beatenest thing," said Deacon Dodge, "was 
that feller 'ith the big bass-viol." 

"An ter call thet sacred mewsic!" said Deacon 
Rawson. 

" He made it beller like a bull, or squeal like a pig, 
jest ez he'd a min' tew," said Deacon Holyoke. 

" An' ag'in," added Deacon Dodge, " 'twas like a saw 
goin' thru a log." 

"An then," groaned Deacon Rawson, "it actilly 
dahnced a jig — in the haouse o' God!" 

" An' he kep' a-wigglin' up ter the top o' the strings, 
an' then he clipper-clappered all the way daown," ob- 
served Deacon Holyoke. 

" An' he didn't seem ter hev teched nothin', 'cept ez 
a fly might a-breshed it," added Deacon Dodge. 



174 QUAE BIN 

" An' he kep' a-bobbin' his head," continued Deacon 
Holyoke, '' an' reachin' 'way over, an' sawin' away." 

''An' them noises ! " said Deacon Dodge. 

'' Like a pig under a gate," suggested Deacon Hol- 
yoke. 

" An' ag'in, like a donkey brayin'," added Deacon 
Dodge. 

Deacon Rawson was silently looking at his brethren 
with astonishment. 

Here Deacon Dodge looked furtively at Deacon Hol- 
yoke, suspending a chuckle meanwhile. The thin lips 
of Deacon Holyoke showed the twisted corner of a smile. 
Deacon Dodge with averted face was beginning to grin. 
When he turned his eyes upon Deacon Holyoke, there 
w^as a mutual twinkle, and both laughed gently. 

Said Deacon Rawson, " Deekin Dodge, be yeou 
laajiii 'bout this disecration o' God's haouse } An' 
Deekin Holyoke, be yeou } " 

" No," answered Deacon Dodge ; " I was on'y a-la'a- 
fin' at thinkin' o' that air noise like a pig ; 'twas so 
nateral," and he guffawed again. 

'' An' at thet air bray," added Deacon Holyoke. 
'' 'Twas ez nateral ez yeour voice." And he joined 
again in the laugh. "Howsever, Deekin Rawsin," 
he added, ''what's done can't be ondone. An' then, 
the colonel don't b'long tu aour church, ner the bass- 
fiddler nuther." 

" Wal," said Deacon Rawson severely, ^' the colonel 
orter be talked tu, so 's 't he won't du so next time — in 
God's haouse ; an' ef nobody else won't du it, I will." 

Meanwhile the colonel, purring like a great yellow 
cat, was having a pleasant talk with the minister, who 
appeared to be pleased with everything. Somehow 



SC'A'nAV OBSERVANCES 1 75 

Deacon Rawson let the offender pass without the 
threatened admonition. 

As Deacon Dodge and Deacon Holyoke were parting, 
they looked at each other for a moment, and then 
Deacon Dodge with a smile said, " Thet pig!" while 
Deacon Holyoke beatifically replied, " Thet donkey!" 
and they went their ways. 

Said Deacon Rawson, left alone, *' Wal, I ra'aly 
b'lieve Deekin Dodge an' Deekin Holyoke ain't a mite 
sorry to hev heered that fiddler in the haouse of God 1 
Wal, I must say he ivas funny." 



l6 OUABBIN 



CHAPTER XIX 

TRANSITION 

The second minister had fought the good fight al- 
most single-handed, and would have been entitled to 
adopt as his own the triumphant words of the Apostle 
Paul. He had accomplished much, and it had cost him 
dear. The church was awakened from formalism, and 
was a moral force to be counted upon. Public senti- 
ment was becoming strong against drunkenness, and 
the sale of spirits had ceased, except at the tavern 
bar, — a place to which few respectable men ventured 
to go for drams. The meeting-house bore witness to 
the general improvement, shining in fresh paint with- 
out, and newly decorated within. The advocates of 
better schools began to take courage, and the main 
roads were a trifle less stony. Altogether, Ouabbin 
was looking up. Of course much remained to be done. 
It was only the dawn that appeared, not the new day. 
But as long as Ouabbin exists, those who know its 
history will do honor to the memory of its brave and 
devoted second minister. 

The strain had tried his spirit and broken his health ; 
in nine years he was "worn out," and he resigned his 
charge. It might have been poetical justice if he 
could have remained to enjoy the grateful love of a 
people for whom he had sacrificed so much. The sal- 



TRANSITION 177 

ary could not have been a temptation, as it never 
exceeded one thousand dollars. And then a man of 
decided charactej^ is always liable to wound the sen- 
sibilities of some, without being aware of it; and, 
besides, he necessarily makes enemies by engaging in 
contests. Those whom the minister had faced with 
such intrepidity, and whom he had blistered with 
denunciation, would never have been heartily recon- 
ciled to him. No ; after the hard work of the pioneer 
was done, some milder-mannered and more plausible 
man, with not one-half of his intellectual and moral 
worth, would succeed to the territory he had gained, 
and be far more popular. " Other men have labored, 
and ye have entered into their labors." 

An incident which occurred early in the following 

reign (Minister III.) showed that the fire of old enmity 

was still smouldering and not extinct. There had 

been prosecutions for the ihegal sale of liquors, and 

for kindred misdemeanors, which were bitterly resented 

by those implicated ; and there were threats of reprisals 

which would make the people of Quabbin ''sorry." 

But no one thought seriously of the menaces, since 

angry people often bluster without any fixed purpose. 

One Saturday at dusk, a man who was passing the 

meeting-house observed something unusual, — a small 

square ^of darkness in the light-gray foundation. He 

went nearer, and saw that the end of one of the oblong 

stones had been pushed in, leaving an opening under 

the building. A train of thought shot like lightning 

through his brain, and he went away for a lantern. 

Upon returning he made an exploration, and found 

within easy reach a fuse, and beyond it a cask. ^ Kecp- 

ino- the lantern well awav, he succeeded in pulling out 



178 QUABBIN 

the cask, and found it contained gunpowder! The 
horror of the discovery made his good sense forsake 
him ; instead of leaving the cask, and cutting or wet- 
ting the fuse, and setting a watch to catch any one who 
should come to light it, he carried away the evidence 
of the intended crime; so that Quabbin never knew, 
and we shall never know, if the purpose was to blow 
up the meeting-house when empty, or to destroy the 
congregation during worship, or simply to give the 
people a fright. Charity would favor the latter suppo- 
sition, but a malicious or even a murderous intention 
was not wholly improbable. Before that time the tem- 
per of the evil-minded had been shown by breaking 
gates, poisoning pet dogs, shaving the tails of horses, 
and the like ; but putting powder under the meeting- 
house was such a mixture of murder and sacrilege, that 
society was agitated to its centre. 

Extraordinary stories flew about, growing bigger by 
distance. Thus, the meeting-house had been blown 
up with five barrels of cannon powder; the steeple 
had leaped into the air, and fallen point downward into 
the pond, and remained sticking there; a man had been 
caught with a lighted torch, creeping toward the cav- 
ity ; a fuse had been found partially burned, and provi- 
dentially extinguished ; a well-known criminal had been 
seen prowling about under the horse-sheds ; and a 
wagon (presumably for the escape of the Guy Fawkcs 
after the explosion) had been seen waiting in the edge 
of the village. 

The discoverer was at first extolled for his prompt 
action, and afterward as much blamed for not having 
allowed the plot to mature, so that the criminals could 
have been convicted. 



TRANSITION- 179 

The minister, as usual, was calm and smiling, as if 
entirely satisfied with himself, and with the protecting 
care of Divine Providence. 

This minister (the third) was in early middle-age 
when he came to Ouabbin. He was a man of good 
stature, agreeable presence, and fluent speech. His 
voice was high-pitched, musical in quality, and with a 
touch of sympathy that was very effective. His en- 
gaging manner and unfailing good-humor won for him 
universal favor. It is never easy to estimate the depth 
of religious conviction without knowing the depth of 
character, but this man's habitual talk was upon divine 
things ; and in his pastoral visits, as well as in public 
worship, his sweetly phrased counsels, the tender per- 
sonal interest shown, and the grace of every utterance, 
made him appear either the saintliest of courtiers or 
the courtliest of saints. This is not to intimate con- 
scious hypocrisy, for, as far as he knew himself, he 
was perfectly sincere. 

The first minister's sermons had been methodical if 
unpretending, and were carefully composed, and gar- 
nished with biblical quotation. The second had gen- 
erally written his discourses, but, as we have seen, he 
could preach extempore upon a fitting occasion. The 
third seldom took any notes into the pulpit. He vvas 
endowed with such a gift of speech that the love of 
God and man flowed from his lips in smoothest and 
finest sentences, and in tones of melody that won most 
hearts. Some few hearts v.^ere not won, because they 
were associated with hard heads. 

But the first sermon after the installation was highly 
successful, and almost triumphant. The new minister 
•was the only man heard up to that time in Ouabbin 



l80 QUADBIN 

who had the courage to stand up without a scrap of 
paper, and who could pour out a discourse, without 
hesitation, in varying modes of warning, entreaty, and 
ecstasy ; while in exalted moments a fine, tremulous 
thrill winged his words, giving them a carrying quality, 
like the notes of a great violoncellist. For some days 
nothing else was talked about. 

A well-known old grumbler said, " Yis, sartin, 'twas 
a wonderful power o' words ; they come right 'long, 
'thout no coaxin'. Fact is, 't he skimmed over his sub- 
jec' like a sled goin' daown hill on glair ice. But 
'pears ez ef he's laid aout a good lot o' work tu du. 
The sleepy brethren is to be waked up ; the cold ones 
is to be het, an' the slack an' feeble ones is to be stiff- 
ened up. Then the prayer-meetin's is to be med lively, 
an' he's to go f'm haouse ter haouse, lookin' arter the 
stray lambs o' the flock. An' he's goin' to hev the 
schools reformed ; jest ez ef readin', writin', and 
rethemtic wasn't alius the same; jest ez ef ye c'd 
reform the multiplication-table, er the A B C's, er the 
Lord's Prayer ! Howsever, we shell see. Ef talk c'd 
du it, I sh'd think Jie might, fer he's a master hand thet 
way. But wut is 't he means 'baout buildin' a railroad 
to the fix'd stars } The railroad daown yander — I 
hain't seen it, but they tell me 't 's bolted to the 
airth. Yer cant send a injine out 'n the air to a 
star." 

'' That was a figure of speech," suggested the school- 
master. 

*' Figger o' speech! 'Pears to me 'twas jest foolish- 
ness, an' no figgers 'baout it. Yer can't figger on a 
thing thet ain't common-sense. 'Stid o' talkin' 'baout 
railroadin' ter the stars, I sh'd think he might 



TRANSITION l8l 

more Script er, an' less pooty talk. I felt jest like one 
o' my oxen when he hain't hed nuthin' but dry straw 
to chaw on. He didn't once tech on the decrees, ner 
the elect, ner the lake o' fire an' brimstun." 

^'But," said the schoolmaster, "there isn't time for 
everything in one sermon." 

'' Wal, 'fore I heerd him I sh'd a-said so tu ; but, I'm 
thinkin', he hed time fer 'baout all he knows." 

This was almost the only discordant note in the 
general chorus of praise. The minister's earnestness, 
his beautiful voice, and unexampled fluency, had made 
a strong impression. 

In the course of an impassioned appeal, he had, per- 
haps inadvertently, made use of the boldly figurative 
language of which the aged grumbler complained. 
The passage is here given in a somewhat simplified 
form, for it would be difficult to follow it in all its luxu- 
riance of phrase. 

" Ah," said he in his high-pitched tenor, " the time 
will never come in this mortal life when Christians will 
find nothing to do for the blessed service of their Divine 
Lord and Master. When the enlightened and reani- 
mated church shall have gathered into its bosom all the 
people of this land, and the folds of the stars and stripes 
shall be mingled with the lilies of the Prince of peace, 
waving over a regenerated country ; when our foreign 
missio'^naries shall have dethroned the man of sin, and 
carried by assault the strongholds of Mohammedanism 
and of Paganism ; when the ancient people of God shall 
have seen^he light of the Star of Bethlehem, and looked 
on him whom they once doomed to a shameful death at 
the hands of Roman legionaries ; when the isles of the 
sea shall have been cheered by the sound of sweet Sab- 



1 82 QUAE BIN 

bath bells, and the dusky Polynesian shall have turned 
from his revolting banquets of the roasted flesh of the 
heralds of the cross ; when in all parts of the earth the 
peace of God shall rest like sunlight gilding a beautiful 
landscape, — ah, then, my friends, even then, there will be 
no time to repose and fold the hands ! No ; for then the 
untiring servants of God will look for other and wider 
fields of labor ; and, if possible, they will build a rail- 
road to the fixed stars" (very high intonation here), '^so 
as to carry to the remotest bounds of the universe the 
glad news of redemption by Christ Jesus." 

The minister apparently moved through the Lord's 
vineyard with a light heart, and cheerfully fulfilled his 
customary duties. He made calls everywhere, and 
greatly delighted women by petting their children and 
complimenting their housekeeping. It soon became 
known that he was fond of tea, and every matron 
hastened to make him a cup on his arrival. While he 
sat balancing a teaspoon, and looking too radiant for a 
being of flesh and blood, he had a store of sweet sen- 
tences to utter, assorted sizes and flavors, and left 
the household to wonder at an eloquence which never 
ran dry. 

He visited the schools regularly, and was the most 
agreeable of committee-men. He listened to the les- 
sons repeated by rote, and never stopped to test the 
pupils' knowledge. He always had some pleasant story 
to tell, and his counsels were full of encouragement. 
He had scarcely need to flatter, since his face and 
voice were the expression of compliment. Inexperi- 
enced teachers were entranced, and the boys said his 
talk was " ez slick ez grease." Some older pupils were 
dissatisfied with the lack of critical examination ; they 



TRANSITION' 1 83 

were, a few of them, ambitious of undertaking higher 
studies, and longed for a helping hand, or a suggestion. 
Some were privately delving in Latin grammar, in 
algebra or geometry, and imagined that so learned a 
man as the minister might give them good advice ; but 
neither they nor any in Quabbin ever knew of what 
languages or sciences he was master. 

Every day he was abroad, distributing smiles and 
kind words ; and those who lived near him often won- 
dered when he found time to study. Among his other 
gifts was an unfailing memory of persons and names ; 
and in a little time the families were so well known to 
him that, upon meeting any man, he could inquire as 
to all the members of his household without ever mak- 
ing a mistake. This faculty, besides being serviceable 
to a public man, is the most insinuating kind of 
flattery. People are secretly pleased to be promptly 
remembered. 

The prayer-meetings were more animated, and more 
entertaining (if the word be allowed), because they were 
conducted in a smoothly superficial way. There was 
no ''deep ploughing," no searching of consciences with 
a probe, nothing to make people feel uncomfortable. 
When the minister asked a brother to 'Mead in prayer," 
it was in the gracious tone of a monarch addressing a 
court favorite. His exuberant style had been naturally 
imitated ; and the extempore prayers and exhortations 
of the younger brethren became as flowery as Solo- 
mon's Songs. The deacons, however, were too fully 
committed to old forms and usages to change. 

After the lapse of some months, the deacons had a 
conference quite by chance. It is proper to state that 
the selection of this minister was not so much due to 



1 84 QUAE BIN 

them as to certain rich and influential men who had no 
official relations with the church. 

'* Wal," said Deacon Rawson, " the minister's sartin 
a ready preacher, an' he keeps a-hold o' the congerga- 
tion pooty wal, so fer ; but haow long he k'n go on 
'thaout some new idees, thet's what I don't see. A 
mill don't grind out flaour onless ther's grain fallin' 
inter the hopper." 

"He hain't never preached any doctrine," said Dea- 
con Dodge. 

" He hain't raoused th' impenitunt," said Deacon 
Holyoke. 

"An' haow could he V asked Deacon Rawson ; "it's 
all one thing over 'n over. It's my 'pinion 't he's a 
good man ez fer's he knows, — ez fer's he kin be. But 
I'm afeard he hain't no depth tu him, an' no ra'al feelin'. 
All them fine words don't signify nothin' ; he k'n reel 
'em off any time. Ef he was ra'ally teched himself, he 
mio-ht tech other folks. His words don't come aout 
f'm his h'art, but aout f'm his head, an' ther' ain't no 
grip to 'em. He don't feel 'em no more'n a pump 
feels the resh o' water in its inside." 

"Ain't ye a leetle hard on him .^ " asked Deacon 
Dodge. 

" Wal, p'r'aps I be," answered Deacon Rawson. " But 
I was a-thinkin' 'baout a funeral wher' he wan't a mite 
o' use, — wher' he'd better ben away. It was Levi 
Pomeroy, y' know, who struck the axe in his ankle ; an', 
ez he was full-blooded, the waound mortified. There 
wan't no savin' him onless they'd a-cut off his leg at 
fust. 'Twas an occashun when a ra'al minister 'd 've 
gin some livin , airnest word o' comfort ter the widder, 
an' some solumn warnin' to th' impenitunt, he bein' 



TRANSITION 1 85 

took oif so suddin. But the minister, he jest went to 
spinnin' silk rib'ns ; an' when I looked at the widder I 
c'd see she was jest sick an' tired o' his flaowery stuff, 
'thaout a mite o' ra'al feelin' in it, an' her pore h'art 
achin 'so, — jest a-thustin' a'u' hungerin' for divine 
comfort." 

*' VVal, naow yeou speak on't," said Deacon Holyoke, 
*' I felt much abaout so tu the fun'ral o' young Thomp- 
son. 'Twas a bright, pooty boy, ye know, — his flesh 
an' bones mangled at the saw-mill, an' he fetched home 
dead to his mother, an' she a-shriekin' so's ter be 
heered a mile. Wal, naow, arter sech a shock ez thet, 
what comfort was't tu his mother at the fun'ral ter hear 
them strings o' words thet don't mean nothin' .? He 
might 've improved the solumn occashun for her good ; 
an' he might 've showed he'd a man's heart inside of 
him. Any man thet knows what a mother feels thet's 
lost her boy in thet orful way, ef he trusts to na- 
ter, he'll say sunthin' 'live an' tender an' comfortin'. 
Seemed 's ef I couldn't set still while he was sayin' 
them smooth things." 

''We ain't gohi' ter hev another man soon ag'in like 
him that's left us," said Deacon Rawson. "Talk abaout 
feelin' ! When Jic went tu a fun'ral he was a trew 
comfort tu the 'flicted ; an' he was a terrer tu evil- 
dewers tu." 

"No; we didn't know when we was wal off," said 
Deacon Dodge. "We hed orter kep' him." 

" Wal," said Deacon Rawson, " I s'pose I've said tu 
much. I talk tu yeou 'cause we've an int'rest in the 
church together. Them that was the means o' gittin' 
this minister here '11 naterally stan' by him. It's aour 
dewty to wait, an' in dew time the Lord '11 show us his 
will.'' 



1 86 QUAE BIN 

The county newspaper, a few days later, had a report 
of a " powerful sermon " delivered by the minister of 
Quabbin at the county town, wiiere he had appeared by 
an exchange of pulpits. After the preliminary, the 
report was in these terms : — 

"It is seldom that the eloquence of the pulpit has received a nobler 
or more brilliant illustration than in the discourse on last Sabbath morn- 
ing at the East Church. The Rev. Mr. , of Quabbin, preached to a 

crowded and delighted audience from the text, 'Let your light so shine,' 
etc. After touching lightly upon the various points of Christian dutv, 
the orator (for so we must call him), arrayed the vast fields of enterprise 
upon which the church is now engaged, and pictured the triumphs that 
are to follow when the kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms 
of our Lord; when the valiant missionaries of the cross shall have 
stormed the strongholds of the false prophet and of Paganism ; when the 
islands of the sea will be wakened on Sabbath mornings by church bells, 
and the cannibals cease their shocking banquets of human flesh ; when 
.wars shall cease, and men shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and 
their spears into pruning-hooks ; and all men shall be united in the love 
of God and of each other. 'Then,' asked he with a significant emphasis, 
'do vou think it wilTbe time for the faithful servants of God to fold their 
hands and enjoy their well-earned repose } No ; they will be looking for 
new worlds to conquer. They will even try to build a railroad to the 
fixed stars, so as to carry to the uttermost bounds of creation the news 
of the unsearchable riches of Christ Jesus our Lord.' 

" We do not pretend to quote this magnificent outburst verbatim ; but 
the impression was so strong that some of the sentences are a part of 
memory henceforth and forever. The high note struck by the reverend 
gentleman at the end of the first clause of the last sentence was abso- 
lutely thrilling. The people of Quabbin are to be congratulated in having 
set over them as minister a man of such extraordinary and irresistible 
eloquence." 



HOW THE TWIG WAS BENT 187 



CHAPTER XX 

HOW THE TWIG WAS BENT 

The Puritans laid down rules of conduct for an 
ideal society of believers. Such a society as they con- 
ceived of could not have held together for many gener- 
ations, for some of their precepts and customs were 
contrary to the primal and ineradicable instincts of 
human nature. In practice, as has been intimated, 
they placed work at the head of the Christian virtues. 
There was some reason for this ; and, with occasional 
rest and amusements, the condition of daily labor would 
not have been intolerable. But they imagined play to 
be foolish, if not sinful, and the longing for recrea- 
tion on the part of children to be one of the symptoms 
of that total depravity which infected every son and 
daughter of Adam. This, in their opinion, was part 
of the ''foolishness" which was ''bound up in the 
heart of a child," and which only " the rod of correc- 
tion " could drive away. The model boy was he who 
toiled from Monday morning to Saturday night, and 
asked for no diversion. ?n many families this strict- 
ness was not observed ; a good many boys had reason- 
able liberty, and were proficient in sports and games, 
including ball-playing, swimming, and skating ; but 
very few were allowed to grow up in idleness. 

As the housewife had enoufrh to do indoors, and 



1 88 QUABBIN 

the husband followed his regular work, the odd jobs, 
called ''chores," fell to the lot of the boys. These 
were the care of poultry, horses, oxen, cows, sheep, or 
pigs, weeding the garden, cutting and carrying in fire- 
wood, doing errands at the store, shovelling paths in 
the snow, and numberless other things. On farms 
where animals were numerous, there were usually 
hired men to attend to the barns, but there were, 
nevertheless, always tasks for the boys. 

The ultra-pious, who went about sighing, and ex- 
claiming, "This is a dying world!" insisted upon chil- 
dren's renunciation of toys and games, and strove to 
plant in their minds the sad resolution and endeavor 
which had guided their own lives. It was not an inten- 
tional unkindness, but rather an attempt to override or 
ignore the conditions and needs of immaturity. One 
would think they would have been instructed by the 
antics of colts and calves, and by the frolics of puppies 
and kittens ; but the analogy did not appear to strike 
them, and they believed they were acting " in the light 
of eternity" by bringing up serious little old men. 

It is obviously a lasting wrong to a boy's physical 
and moral nature to deny him a fair share in the amuse- 
ments suited to his age. Two-thirds and more of the 
children in Quabbin had a reasonable time for play ; 
but for the remnant the world was melancholy enough. 
Look at the life of a boy during week-days under such 
repression. We have already seen how his Sundays 
were spent. His yeek-days were scarcely less monoto- 
nous. While some of his school-fellows were at play, 
the " good boy " was at work in the garden or wood- 
yard, or was driving the cow to pasture ; and when his 
chores were done, he was told he might read. And 



HOW THE TWIG WAS BENT 1 89 

such books! He never played marbles, as that was a 
gambling game. He never had a manageable kite, 
because a good string cost money, and that was waste- 
ful. He had a sled, because that could be made use- 
ful in bringing flour and provisions ; but he was not 
allowed skates, and so missed the exhilaration of glid- 
ing over the ice with the joyous crowds that frequented 
the ponds. From an unwise caution, he was not per- 
mitted to learn to swim. On some rare occasions he 
found time to take a part in round ball or four-old-cat ; 
but, owing to want of practice, he muffed the balls as a 
catcher, and missed them as a batter. In fact, he never 
learned any game well enough to play it tolerably ; for 
he was expected to make a sober and godly use of his 
time, and was counselled to live every day as he would 
if he knew that his next waking were to be in the 
eternal world. He had a little pocket-money, but gen- 
erally earned it by the hardest penance, and, in place 
of laying it out for '' follies," he was allowed to put it 
in the box at the missionary prayer-meeting. A boy 
who .cannot take part in the sports of his fellows is 
cut off from comradeship, and the isolation produces 
an estrangement on both sides, that ceases only with 
life. 

The men of Ouabbin showed the effects of uninter- 
mitted work. They were mostly well-jointed, strong, 
and enduring, but were heavy, awkward, and slouching 
in movement. They walked like ploughmen, with a 
slow inclination from side to side. There was no flexi- 
bility in the arms, no erectness in the spinal column, no 
easy carriage of the head. Had their work been varied 
with some light and agreeable exercise, — dancing, pleas- 
ure excursions, rowing, or the like, — they might have 



IQO QUAE BIN 

been equally strong, with a great gain in lightness, 
grace, and activity. 

In earlier clays the sinners had the advantage of the 
saints in athletics, owing in a great measure to dan- 
cing-, which is a wonderful lubricator of the joints, and 
the parent of graceful movement. When the sinners 
mostly came under the sway of the church, and dances 
and romping games fell into disuse, then the lumber- 
ing motion became universal ; humility and reverence 
bowed the head and shoulders, and the feet and legs 
drawled like the speech. The want of liveliness and 
of inspiriting exercise was painfully characteristic of 
Ouabbin. A walk that extended beyond the limits of 
the village was unusual. To go three miles people felt 
obliged to get a horse from the livery stable. If a man 
walked five miles he was thought eccentric and preten- 
tious. Whereas, if men, women, and children in such 
a village had been compelled to walk from three to five 
miles a day in all weathers, it would have set heads 
upright, given spring and elasticity to joints, made 
biliousness disappear, and brightened theology. 

Strictly religious people forbade their children to 
strike a blow, whether in retaliation or defence. This 
was the severest trial ; but boys were assured of two 
things, namely, that, if they were punished at school, 
another punishment would follow at home, and that 
they would be birched if they fought with other boys, 
even in self-defence. Now, boys have always fought, 
and always will ; and a " good boy " who was forbidden 
to " hit back " was always the first one to be pounced 
upon, and so became the butt of small scoffers, and the 
victim of all the malice and mischief not otherwise 
employed. However non-resistance may have worked 



HOW THE TWIG WAS BEAT 1 91 

"down in Judee," it is scarcely practicable among the 
Anglo-Saxons of to-day. 

The Puritan enjoined upon his children the duty of 
being kindly affectioned and helpful. " If any man 
ask thee to go a mile, go with him twain." A boy so 
brought up was liable to frequent imposition. One of 
them met the minister (Number III.) one day, and 
observed from afar his beaming face. His expansive 
joy was like the oil that ran down upon the beard, even 
Aaron's beard, and touched the hem of his garment. 
The boy was overwhelmed as by an angelic vision. 
" Sonny," said the minister, in his mellifluous tone, " I 
want to send word over to Brother Colman about ex- 
changing with me next Lord's Day, and am afraid a 
letter by mail mayn't reach him in season. Now, I have 
a nice, gentle saddle-horse ; and do?it you want to ride 
over and take a letter to him } That's a good boy ! 
It will be a pleasant trip for you, and, in a way, you 
will be doing the Master's w^ork." 

Permission w^as got from his parents, — who could 
say "no" to the minister.'^ — and for five miles out and 
five miles back the boy was jounced and pounded on a 
hard-trotting beast, to oblige a smooth-tongued diplo- 
matist, who had ample means and leisure to attend to 
his own affairs. The boy had already all he could do 
from week's end to week's end, and seldom an hour 
for play. And what did he gain by the ride that made 
all his bones ache.^ The reward of an " approving con- 
science," and a reputation for good nature that would 
invite further aggression. 

To turn the other cheek to the smiter, to be gener- 
ous and helpful to the point of self-denial, to regard 
work as a duty and blessing, to the exclusion of amuse- 



192 QUABBIN 

ments, — these are all doctrines of the gospel. But, 
according to the same authority, all the lands of a town 
should be held in common, and all the hoards of money 
and goods should be divided ; there should be no rich 
and no poor ; all labor should be equalized, and all 
dignities abolished ; the lawyer must not be called 
" Esquire," nor the minister *' Reverend." Why were 
the boys given the ''hard lines," when adults disre- 
garded the fundamental condition of primitive Chris- 
tianity ? 

The people in ancient times were said to have been 
divided into beasts of burden and beasts of prey ; and 
the classification is not wholly obsolete. There are 
plenty of burdens ready for patient shoulders, and 
there will never be any rest for the good natured. 
Without some firmness, and a little pugnacity in re- 
serve, and without a 7'casonable core of selfishness, a 
man will play a poor part in the world as it is. The 
domineering and predatory, and the crafty and plausi- 
ble, are always seeking for victims among the amiable 
and self-forgetting. It seems altogether ludicrous or 
absurd to think of preaching the need of combative- 
ness and self-protection in times like ours ; and probably 
there are few places in the world now-a-days where 
such preaching would not be out of place. But among 
primitive Christians in Quabbin, long ago, and doubt- 
less in other small rural communities, there were 
youths who were brought up to be willing pack-horses, 
and men who were so obliging that they lived and died 
poor. The majority of the people there, as elsewhere, 
needed no counsel as to their own interests ; but the 
gentle-natured who went forth to seek their fortunes 
learned to stiffen their own fibre, and take juster views 
of the character of the men they met in the world. 



HO IV THE TWIG WAS BE XT 193 

With all the care that was taken to strengthen chil- 
dren by holy precepts, and to surround them with good 
examples, it is strange that, in so many instances, they 
were allowed to come within reach of the baser sort of 
hired men. This was sometimes an influence for evil, 
both deadly and contagious. In an hour or in a mo- 
ment an impression or suggestion might be made that 
would poison a whole life. Errors of opinion can be 
combated, and many sins can be atoned for and for- 
saken, but the soil of immodesty, — what shall wash it 
away ? Can a cheek once kissed be ?/;/-kissed } or 
snow once sullied become like ermine again .^ The 
youth who has received the hint of sensuality will 
never again be the pure-hearted youth he was. Those 
coarse and vicious farm-hands, and strolling journeymen 
mechanics, were the curse of some families in Quabbin, 
and the elders seem not to have suspected it. A father 
should take heed v/hat sort of a man he admits, even 
for a day, under his roof. 

Few young people know under what severe discipline 
their fathers were brought up ; and to many this 
account of the trials of youth in Quabbin long ago will 
appear exaggerated and bitter. But, in fact, it is 
wholly within the limits of truth. While the recollec- 
tions of boyhood in the old time include much that is 
bright and beautiful, there are also impressions of an 
unreasonable austerity, which are as painful as old 
wounds. When such impressions are recalled, it is not 
at the dictate of resentment, but with a view of con- 
tributing to the stock of human experience something 
that may be of service in the education of to-day . 



194 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXI 

QUABBIN LOSES AND GAINS 

In the part of the village near the dam there were 
formerly mills and shops that have mostly disappeared, 
though some dozed into forgetfulness and became store- 
houses for rubbish. Few of the present inhabitants 
remember that there was once a saw-mill near the 
bridge, and opposite to it a tall cotton-factory whose 
booming "picker" strove all day to drown the noise of 
its neighbor, the strident saw ; or that there was a pros- 
perous (and odorous) tanyard on the river-bank; or that 
across the bridge there was a linseed-oil mill, whose 
high stone wheels turned gayly round each other, like a 
pair of stout and tireless waltzers. All these disap- 
peared long ago, and left no trace. In a dull yellow 
building there were, sixty years ago, dozens of bright, 
clicking machines, complex as watches, which set wire 
teeth in leather for carding, and acted as if with human 
intelligence. The card-factory was the foundation of 
two fortunes ; but the business at last went elsewhere, 
and the building became as melancholy as the town's 
poor-house. 

In the North Village also, various small industries 
were in progress. There was a little shop where pearl 
buttons were made from oyster shells ; one in which 
shoe-pegs were cut by ingenious machinery from 



QUAE BIX LOSES AND GAINS 195 

fragrant birch-wood, most odorous of native woods ; 
also a saw-mill, a machine-shop, and a trip-hammer 
forge for making hoes. None of these now exist. The 
rights of the water-power were absorbed by the cotton- 
factory ; while in the lower village they were divided 
between the factory and the grist-mill. 

While all these mills and shops were flourishing, the 
stores were prosperous, new dwellings were built, and 
new faces appeared on Sund^ay in the meeting-house. 
Quabbin appeared to have what in modern times is 
called a "boom ; " but it was not to endure. 

The town reached its maximum of population, 
and the height of its prosperity in business, about 
the beginning of the third minister's term ; but 
with its prosperity or decline neither he nor his 
predecessor had anything to do ; the business and 
population were affected by circumstances unfore- 
seen and inevitable. The deterioration began when 
the State's trunk line of railroad passed a dozen miles 
on one side. A great many years later a railroad 
was built through Quabbin, but it was too late ; its 
business had been tapped and drawn off, never to flow 
back. Railroads are sometimes feeders and sometimes 
drains. Other things were co-operating in the decline, 
and no shrewdness or activity availed. When flax- 
growing ceased, the pair of great mill-stones had no 
more seed to waltz over. When the hills had been 
stripped of the trees of large girth, the saw-mills were 
no longer profitable. Against the enormous competi- 
tion of Lowell, Lawrence, and Manchester, a small cot- 
ton-factory in Quabbin had not the least chance. The 
making of card-clothing, which had been such a source 
of wealth, could be better managed near the machinery 



196 QUAE BIN 

for which it was designed. When '' satinets " got out 
of favor, cotton warps were no longer wanted. One 
thins: fell after another. For a lon^r time the factories 
were idle ; and it appeared that Ouabbin, possibly, 
might some day end where it began, with a grist-mill. 
But latterly shoddy is made there by Canadian French 
workmen ; and the Gallic invasion naturally awakens 
some apprehension among the natives. Shoddy ! 
Absit oincji. 

Perhaps something worth while might have been 
done with the wasting water-power ; but with un- 
stable tariffs, just as fatal when too high as too low, 
and with alien workers, — for Yankees work no more 
in mills, excepting '' opinion mills," — the prospect 
of manufacturing in such a remote place was not 
alluring. 

Let us go back for a moment to the old time. Peo- 
ple never knew how it came about that the three courtly 
and popular mill-owners, before mentioned, gradually 
lost their hold upon the property, and began to decline 
in wealth and influence. 

A couple of young, active, and pushing men succeeded 
the three elderly, easy-going, kindly gentlemen by dint 
of superior business qualities. There was a slow rise 
of one side, corresponding with the slow decline of the 
other. The older party had the whole boundless (and 
useless) sympathy of the town's-people, who looked on 
at the inch-by-inch process, and anticipated the end of 
the drama long before the curtain fell. 

After the death of the venerable mother, the son who 
had cared for her went away to another State. Another, 
he who lived upon the knoll, went elsewhere to begin 
the world anew. The elder and most distinguished, he 



QUAE BIN LOSES AiYD GA/XS 1 97 

of the orange complexion, whose showy house and Ori- 
ental treasures were the wonder of the village, with- 
drew from active business, retaining but a small share 
in the water-power, and lived upon the lessening rem- 
nant of his fortune. His death was the mellow sunset 
of an autumn day. 

A circle of brilliant associations ended for Quabbin 
when the places of the three brothers knew them no 
more. Relatives from the county town, and from 
Boston, used to enliven the village and the country 
roads in summer, — charming and cultivated ladies, 
budding clergymen and lawyers, the usual gathering 
of people of leisure at hospitable country houses. 
After the end of the old regime they came no more. 
Neither the balustraded villa near the meeting-house, 
nor the ancient, sombre, elm-shaded mansion, ever knew 
again the gayety of former days. 

About the same time a number of prominent fami- 
lies in the village were broken up by removal or death, 
and the village began to lose ground in social qualities. 
Among the grown-up population there was almost a 
dead level of dulness ; for the leading men, though 
intelligent, were not highly cultivated : they were 
good citizens, public-spirited, and often benevolent, 
but their strength was in making money. It came 
about, however, that some of the rich men conferred, 
indirectly, a great boon upon the community by hav- 
ing their daughters taught in distant boarding-schools. 
There were places in Massachusetts which had largely 
the start of Quabbin in enlightenment, and it was a 
o:reat matter that this small town received a share by 
reflection. When the half-dozen daughters came back 
with some knowledsre of books, and of music, with the 



198 QUAE BIN 

speech of the educated world, and with notions of 
refinement in manners and dress, the usual conse- 
quences followed. That is to say, every home-keeping 
damsel declared the talk, the dress and ways of the 
boarding-school graduates to be "stuck-up" and ridicu- 
lous, and then proceeded to copy them to the best of 
her ability. Some of these educated young ladies 
were possessed of more than ordinary talents, and 
were proficient in many studies, including modern lan- 
guages ; but, for well-known reasons, an acquaintance 
with English literature was not possible at that time. 
Unhappily they did not appear to concern themselves 
with the improvement of society in the village ; they 
had outgrown it. In the course of time they married, 
one after the other, and went away ; but while they 
remained they appeared conspicuous, and were thought 
to be indifferent to public opinion. Their hats, rib- 
bons, laces, and gloves, and the fit of their robes, the 
dressino: of their hair, and even their foldincr of a shawl, 
were marked by an inimitable elegance. Reserved in 
their intercourse as they were, their silent example 
was eloquent. Their rustic neighbors felt convicted of 
a whole catalogue of social misdemeanors when they 
learned the necessity of the exclusive use of the fork 
at table, and of certain proprieties and interdictions 
in regard to dress and toilet. The school-mistresses 
were piqued to discover, as they all did in time, that in 
practice their grammar was habitually shaky, and their 
pronunciation hopelessly vulgar ; and forthwith they 
began to exterminate Yankeeisms like ill weeds, and to 
strive after pure English. 

Meanwhile, the young ladies whose return had made 
such a stir walked through the village, and drove about 



QUAE BIN LOSES AND GAINS 1 99 

the neighborhood, apparently unconscious of the exist- 
ence of the people they had known all their lives. 
The only place of contact was the Sunday-school, in 
which, upon the earnest entreaty of their parents, they 
became teachers. The religious instruction they gave, 
however, was somewhat neutralized by what their pupils 
thought to be airs of superiority ; for divine grace does 
not mix well with snubbing or ignoring one's neighbor ; 
but it was a lesson of value to hear passages of Scrip- 
ture read with pure tone and correct accent, and to 
observe how English may be free and idiomatic, with- 
out ever becoming ungrammatical. It will be inferred 
that these young women were cordially hated, or at 
least regarded with that mixture of awe, envy, and 
creeping aversion, which is more uncomfortable than 
downright enmity. But there they were, partly the 
admiration, partly the reproachful example, of their 
less-favored town's-folk, vx^ho, if they had read Virgil, 
might have justified their position in learning all they 
could from " the enemy." 

The new influence came too late to benefit mature 
men and women, but it affected, however remotely, 
every boy and girl in the Sunday-school. It roused a 
passionate longing in some youths who had been dream- 
ins: of a better trainins: than the schools of Ouabbin 
afforded. It was an element in the general elevation 
of the community, which became evident in the next 
minister's reign. 

One of these young ladies had a pianoforte, the first 
that was possessed in Ouabbin. It is impossible to 
exaggerate the sensation that was produced in the vil- 
lage when that instrument was first heard. It was a 
clear, moonlit evening in summer, and the windows 



200 QUABBIN 

wore open, rassors-by lingered in the street, and an 
admiring- row of boys appeared to be impaling them- 
selves on the fence pickets under the poplars, as they 
leaned forward to listen. With every group of arpcg- 
gioSy and of florid roiiladcSy it seemed to them that 
diamonds and pearls were flung into the air, or that 
catharine-wheels were shooting fiery little stars, or that 
a thousand bobolinks had been let loose, all singing at 
once ; and that fitful winds came in deep gusts to fur- 
nish the harmonies. All comparisons, however, are 
poor and inapt to express the effects of music, and 
especially of brilliant music with full chords, luJien 
Juard for the first tunc. Explain to a man born blind 
the glories of a rainbow, and then you may give words 
to the sensations of those boys as they listened to the 
pianoforte. Many of them in after years were to hear 
that ill-used instrument drummed by school-girls until 
they were ready to execrate the inventor ; but hardly 
would they forget that beautiful night in Ouabbin, 
when the tones seemed to have come from angelic 
harps, while the trembling leaves of the poplars in a 
soft simirnts told of the delight that spread through 
the air. 

The society of Ouabbin was at times enlivened by 
some bright young schoolmaster, who was woiiking his 
way through college. The village matrons made much 
of these ambitious youths, for there were often appeal- 
ing possibilities in their eager faces ; but the accom- 
plished young ladies hesitated about wasting time upon 
young fellows for whom they would have to w^ait half 
a dozen years, and, meanwhile, be obliged to forego 
flirting, and renounce intervening chances. And if 
one thinks upon it, it was not equitable ; they were at 



tieir best. — " 

rescT iQT ui'c --■ .-— - ' 












•.cs. Ah'I'^'^t iniL%tLt recQ»!Mi«:^'iiCre t&e gnsiuiEiiaL Ba- se^ it 



~T~T_ - - " . 'ST 



•J loiEL^: ♦ZtabO'Ei w:2S too snniLL-L aamct roG- 

_ : inscTmide sti^ronng: Min. 

WliL a dimmisnuicng- r ' ~- -^'^ "^ --_^ 

-aS^nce' of tine cli. ssd wtuo^ were tie enw iniiid tJ&e 
QesTp-.iir 01 - ---'-^ - - - - ^ - 

- - -^-e "oriS S- '— r- -i-"^^* ~- - - „ - 

.^ purties tcr climb t&e Hk. or t® inaw G^m tSse ^rwer, 
s-id 2l^rxv5 csme back -wA ' ^ ^^ w^er-..iJ^s^ car 

w£d-srwirs. besides ttose " ■ _ - - :i i^- tzii£-r oisiis:^ 
Vm-d-ke iiiits. T's^^ ri^s^^^. iltoiiiLg- t&e o-cnitiy iromiSy 
with. trsTTtn:?: skirts ^ 

^r~. ^ .. im an tSoe tamLiISir feyTinrinDS^ b«iii£ 

^ -- - .__- ^eirs : taer woaUd JUiQit ^ mto ta-e sinLgsrs* 



202 QUABB/Ar 

seats; and yet their voices had such vigor and carrying 
quality that the sopranos in the gallery were sometimes 
quite overborne. 

Deacon Rawson's mind was becoming painfully dis- 
turbed. Mrs. Raw son had talked to him about '' them 
gals' goin's on," and at length he thought it his Chris- 
tian duty to see Brother Grant, the father of two 
daughters who were reputed to be ringleaders, and 
endeavor to have some restraint placed upon them. 

When the deacon found an opportunity, it was not 
easy for him to find phrases. He had fancied himself 
talking with fluency, like the minister; but Brother 
Grant was a man of cool self-possession, and his man- 
ner, though civil, did not invite intimacy, still less 
intrusion ; and the deacon toiled through his first sen- 
tences like a horse in a deep clayey road. Said he, — 

" P'r'aps it's comin' pooty clos', tu talk tu a brother 
'baout his own folks ; but 'pears like 'tis a dewty — when 
I see — the need on't. Some o' the brethren, an' more 
speshily the sisters, is kinder troubled by th' irreg'lar 
walk an' wuldly conversashin of " — 

"Whose walk and conversation V asked Mr. Grant 
abruptly. 

" Oh, it's all in Christyin kindness an' brotherly 
love," said Deacon Rawson. '' Don't think I'd " — 

" No need o' beatin the bush," interrupted Mr. 
Grant. *' What is't you're drivin' at .-^ " 

"We was a-hopin', " said Deacon Rawson, " thet 
when yeour darters come back from school they'd set a 
good example tu the perrish. Ez they've bed more 
'vantagiz, they'd orter let their light shine, an' be help- 
ful to the other young folks thet hezn't hed their 
chahnce. 'Stid of which, they don't seem like wut 



QUAE BIX LOSES AXD GAIXS 203 

they was, nor wut was 'xpected. They don't mix ; an' 
they don't see nobody when they meet 'em. P'r'aps 
'tain't surprisin', sence they was away tew or three 
years, an' they might a' forgot." 

" Wal, deacon," said Mr. Grant, *' is it a matter of 
discipHne or reproof for mc, that my daughters don't 
remember everybody?" 

'''Tain't on'y thet," said Deacon Rawson. "Folks 
say they ain't settin' a good example in godly speech an' 
ways, ner in raiment ; thet is, in furbelov/s, ribbons, 
an' frills." 

"And have I to look after women's clothes .^" asked 
Mr. Grant. " Do you look after Mis' Rawson's ? 
That's a little too much." 

"An' thet pyanner. Brother Grant," continued Dea- 
con Rawson; "is it right to be a-playin' dahncin' toones 
in this ere dyin' wuld } Would yeou be willin' to go 
to the jedgment-seat right arter hearin' thet clatterin' 
o' wires, an all thet whirligig mewsic '" 

" I don't know that we can choose what we would be 
doin' when we're to be called to our last account," re- 
plied Mr. Grant. " I mightn't wish to go to the bar 
of God right from a pig-killin' ; but you wouldn't say I 
should do without pork and sahsidge ? But, Deacon 
Rawson, you don't know about the piano. Suppose 
you and Mis' Rawson come over to-morrow in the 
afternoon ? P'r'aps you'll find the piano's like a good 
many other things, — good or bad, accordin' to how it's 
used." 

After some parley Deacon Rawson said " he'd see ef 
he could o-it his folks to '2:ree tu it." It was odd that 
the term "folks" was often used even when the 
speaker meant only his wife. 



204 QUABBIN 

At the time appointed Deacon Rawson stepped down 
from a solid "thorough-braced "wagon at Brother 
Grant's gate, and helped out his portly spouse. They 
went in solemnly by the front door, and were received 
with simple and charming cordiality. The daughters 
were "on their good behavior," and were tastefully 
dressed, without anything to offend censorious eyes. 
The guests presented a sufficient contrast. The dea- 
con was tall and gaunt, with grizzly hair, small and 
deep-set eyes, and a long, straight nose, depending 
from the slenderest attachment at the forehead, and 
broadening like a trumpet. His legs were thin, and 
his shoulders were bowed. He looked like a narrow- 
minded bigot, but much of his expression came from 
his training and experience. When Mrs. Rawson took 
off her "calash," of green silk arched with" rattan ribs, 
which looked like an inharmonious elliptical halo, there 
was displayed a tufted turban of lemon-colored batiste, 
resting upon folds of plain black hair streaked with 
gray. This was an ornament so imposing as to sug- 
gest the head-gear of an Oriental prince. But when 
she was unswathed from her wraps, the straight lines 
and sombre color of her robes repelled any association 
with the affluence of the East. She was round, though 
nolfat; her cheeks were dusky red, and a film of down 
rested on various ivory-tinted curves. The popular 
judgment of her was that she was "good, but slow." 
She had no children, but looked motherly and kind. 

Mr. Grant was a bit of a diplomatist, and had 
arranged his programme in advance. He went and 
opened the piano, a small " square," vv^ith turned legs 
of mahogany, and said to his daughters, "You know I 
have invited our friends, the deacon and his wife, to 



QUABBIN LOSES AND GAINS 205 

hear some music. Suppose we begin with ' Hamburg.' 
You have a good voice, Deacon Rawson, and you can 
carry the bass. The girls will take their two parts, and 
I can sing the tenor by tiptoeing a little." With slow 
and even time that noble tune, based upon an ancient 
choral, was fairly well sung : — 

"Kingdoms and thrones to God belong, 
Crown him, ye nations, in your song." 

The close and solemn harmony was well sustained 
by the piano ; and it was a wholly new sensation to the 
deacon to feel that solid support, while his voice min- 
gled with the sweet tones of the young ladies. The 
moisture in his eyes, and at the tip of his colossal 
nose, testified to the liveliness of his emotion. Then 
followed Pleyel's hymn : — 

*' To thy pastures fair and large, 
Heavenly Shepherd, lead thy charge." 

Then the deacon wanted " Coronation," — 

" All hail the power of Jesus' name." 

This taxed Mr. Grant's '* tiptoeing" tenor, but he 
managed to get through it. As usual, this was sung 
with a great surge of feeling ; and the deacon's ugly 
visage became almost beautiful in his ecstasy. " Coro- 
nation" once roused Yankees to religious enthusiasm, 
as the '' Marseillaise " raised Frenchmen to patriotic 
frenzy. 

One of the young ladies next played a romance with 
a prominent melody, slow and graceful in movement. 
Her tasteful fingering seemed absolutely miraculous. 
After that, one of them sang an air then in vogue, '^ Oh, 



206 QUAE BIN 

had I wings like a dove ! " There was no resisting 
this ; and the deacon was fairly carried off his feet. 

Then the entertainment was continued with marches, 
andajite movements, and variations on familiar themes. 
Afterward tea was served ; and the deacon and his 
wife were profuse in thanks and compliments. 

''Ezyeou said. Brother Grant, it's jest accordin' to 
th' yeuse thet's made on't. Naow th' ol' colonel plays 
a violin with the choir tu meetin', an' it's all right ; 
but ef 'twas off at some tahvern fer dahncin', 'twouldn't 
be a violin, but a fiddle, an' be all wrons:." 

The "pyanner" had triumphed, and the Misses 
Grant, instead of being elated, were apparently softened 
and calmed by the victory. 

They inquired of Mrs. Rawson about cheese-making, 
and promised to go out and see the dairy, the calves, 
the poultry, and all the delights of the farm. 

On the way home Mrs. Rawson said, "Them mother- 
less gals ! Folks calls them high-flyers, an' praoud ; 
p'r'aps they be, but I don't wan' ter see better-behavin' 
gals, nor modester dressed than they was this after- 
noon." If she could have seen how her yellow turban 
looked ! 

The deacon was meditating, and made no reply. Mr. 
Grant, meanwhile, was patting the heads of his daugh- 
ters, promising them each a new gown. 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 20/ 



CHAPTER XXII 

COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 

OuABBiN never sent many young men to college, 
probably less than fifteen, and, up to sixty years ago, 
not more than half a dozen. Within the ancient limits 
of Newbury, at the mouth of the Merrimac, there 
were three hundred graduates of Harvard pollege be- 
tween 1642 and 1845. Three men every two years 
coming fresh from a seat of learning must have brought 
some quickening influence into the community. Even 
if, for a long time, the standard of Harvard College 
was not higher than that of a modern grammar school, 
the mere contact with learned men, and with the air 
of libraries, was inspiring and liberalizing. The list of 
those graduates in Coffin's " History of Newbury," a 
unique and valuable book, reads like a muster-roll of 
the leaders of Massachusetts, instead of the eminent 
men of a town. No other town of like population 
makes a better showing; and the result is instructive. 
Educated men create public sentiment, and, recipro- 
cally, public sentiment increases the number of edu- 
cated men. The full effects of classical culture are 
not developed at once, nor exhausted in the lifetime 
of those who receive it. They may not all become 
authors, — Heaven forbid! — but their existence and 
influence form part of the circumstances in which 



208 QUABBm 

o-enius is born. Leaf-mould fertilizes flowers. The 

o 

effect of a succession of educated men upon the general 
intelligence, and, after a time, upon the literary atmos- 
phere of a town, is always increasing, and in the course 
of two centuries works a transformation. 

Among the descendants of families in Newbury were 
the poets Longfellow, Lowell, and Whittier; the Hales, 
authors .and editors; President C. C. Felton, William 
Lloyd Garrison ; the lawyers Parsons and Greenleaf ; 
Caleb Gushing, diplomatist; George Lunt, poet ; B. A. 
Gould, astronomer ; Judges Sewall and Lowell, Rev. 
Leonard Woods, Rev. S. H. Tyng, and many other 
distinguished men. 

In the course of the rise of Newbury, or of what- 
ever town has borne great sons, and, in a measure, in 
poor and remote Quabbin, there has been a gradual 
and total change in original ideas and tastes, in views 
of life, nature, literature, and art ; but in the larger and 
wealthier places, which are naturally centres of thought 
and opinion, the change w^as earlier and more emphatic. 

At the beginning, the eastern part of the State had 
the pick of the incoming settlers ; and with that advan- 
tage, aided afterward by commerce and activity in 
business, it easily kept the lead in population, in poli- 
tics, in the movements of mind, and in literary produc- 
tiveness. In a handbook of literature published about 
twenty years ago, there are credited to Massachusetts 
seventy-five authors, of whom sixty-four were born or 
resident in the part of the State east of Worcester, and 
eleven in the western part. The majority of these 
seventy-five authors wrote in the early and middle part 
of the present century ; very few in the centuries 
preceding. The inference is, that the bulk of the best 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 209 

literature of the State has been written in the east, and 
since 1830. 

The population of the State in that productive period 
was fairly homogeneous ; and what in common phrase 
is called the foreign element is scarcely represented in 
the literature. It is admitted that the population of 
the eastern part is far larger, and its superior wealth 
has given leisure and means for literary work ; but 
after all due allowances, the west is hopelessly behind 
in productiveness. Genius may not be subject to any 
law of averages ; and it always appears unexpectedly, 
without favoring causes that can be estimated. Why 
Hawthorne was born in Salem, Emerson in Boston, or 
Bryant near the Berkshire Hills, might elude inquiry ; 
but most books, however excellent, are not the work of 
men of genius ; and the total production of books 
follows certain laws which can be studied. 

No great historians, and few great poets, have suc- 
ceeded in Massachusetts without the aid of . ample 
fortunes ; no man who has not inherited or acquired 
property can spend ten or twenty years in researches, 
as did Bancroft, Prescott, Motley, and Parkman. Our 
leading poets, with a single exception, were reared and 
always lived in comfort. But leading poets and histo- 
rians are few ; and as for the remaining authors, who 
might have arisen in any part of the State, we ought to 
know why most of them arose in the east. 

The answer is not far to seek. It was in the cities 
and large towns of the east that the movement began 
against the sterner features of Puritan doctrine, and it 
was there that the people were soonest emancipated 
from the rigor of a rule under which no general litera- 
ture was possible. The casting off of that yoke was 



210 QUABBIN 

followed immediately by a period of illimitable expan- 
sion, of eager study, of new and joyous impressions of 
nature, of new and cheerful views of human life, and of 
new gifts of expression. What is best in the literature 
of Massachusetts belongs to that period of awakening, 
or directly followed it. 

This is not to say that the credit of cur literature is 
due to the development of Unitarianism ; it would have 
been due to whatever system had succeeded in loosen- 
ing the old bonds. The liberalizing influence has con- 
tinued, and is a present moving force in many religious 
organizations in various parts of the State. For liber- 
alism is not wholly, not even primarily, a matter either 
of belief or disbelief, provided we leave out the mon- 
strous doctrine of endless and hopeless punishment ; 
it is rather an attitude or condition of the soul in rela- 
tion to its main points of contact, — God, our fellow- 
men, and the world of nature. The particular dogmas 
that are held are mostly unimportant ; the spirit is 
everything. 

It happened sixty years ago that nearly all the emi- 
nent authors, except of theological books, were Unita- 
rians, while to-day they are of many denominations. 
There are many small towns which the liberalizing 
movement but slightly touched ; and the western part 
of the State is mostly made up of small towns. The 
shadow of the seventeenth century still hangs over many 
small communities, where, with the old rigidity of doc- 
trine, are found the impress of old customs and narrow 
ideas, — ignorance of general literature and science; 
ignorance of biblical criticism, and of the relative 
place of Judea in history ; ignorance of the tendency 
of philosophical thought, and of the whole world of 
ideas with which enlightened men are occupied. 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 211 

That Quabbin and other small towns send few young 
men to college is partly cause and partly effect, in rela- 
tion to public sentiment. Not having been moved 
greatly by the liberalizing spirit, there is not a public 
sentiment which inspires a desire for higher education ; 
and there being among the citizens few who have been 
highly educated, the public sentiment is upon a low 
level. It is like a vicious circle in reasoning, illus- 
trated by the biblical aphorism, "The destruction of 
the poor is their poverty." 

The prevalent belief was that a college education, 
though desirable, was not essential to a physician or a 
lawyer. " When it comes ter studyin' the Scripters," 
said Deacon Rawson, " a man wants ter know the iden- 
ticle words that aour Lord an' his disciples spoke. 
Some says that's Hebrew, an' some says ^ Greek. 
Whichever 'tis, it stands tu reason thet a minister's 
got ter know them air tongues. It's a nawfle 'sponsi- 
bility, this ere breakin' the bread o' life ; an' he who 
doos it orter know every grain it's made on." 

It was agreed, then, that a minister was to be edu- 
cated, and no kind of beneficence was so general and 
so cheerfully bestowed, even in Quabbin, as the aid to 
young men intending to preach. Much was done by 
sociedes, but more by individuals to whom worthy 
candidates were known. The results were generally 
satisfactory, but there were sad exceptions. A well- 
constructed machine turns out uniform work year after 
year, but who can say that a mind will remain as it is 
moulded 1 In minds of low order there is no danger of 
change; and some of the noblest are equally stable, 
because they are so exalted and fervent that they view 
all things through the medium of a feeling which never 



212 QUABBIN 

cools. The extremes of intellect in a divinity class set 
an observer to thinking ; brilliancy and ardor at one 
end, and plodding diilness at the other. A reasoning 
mind, that perceives, compares, and weighs, must, con- 
sciously or unconsciously, take new attitudes from time 
to time toward any complex system of doctrines. No- 
tice the shifting theories of medicine, the constant 
stretch or reversal of judicial decisions, the evanes- 
cence of philosophical conceptions, and consider if it 
is to be supposed that theology is unchangeable .? 
From the time of Arius and Athanasius the debatable 
ground has been fought over, inch by inch, and the 
orthodoxy of one century becomes the heresy of the 
next. The successive developments of dogma (upward 
or downward), from Cotton Mather to Channing, have 
been slowly and painfully accomplished ; and it would 
require a master in dialectics to state intelligibly the 
precise intervening stages. 

Theological students, as well as others reared under 
the influence of Calvinism, have sometimes found 
themselves not masters but slaves of their convictions. 
In spite of a predetermination to abide in the old way, 
and in spite of the ardor of a faith that seeks to domi- 
nate reason, men sometimes find themselves borne on 
an irresistible current, and landed on an unwished-for 
shore. The conviction of an unwelcome truth, or what 
appears to be truth, comes to an ardent man with a 
physical pang; and the sudden uprooting of a long- 
cherished belief is like the wrench of forceps on his 
jaw. Apostasy is an ugly word, and is generally held 
to include a wilful sin ; when, in fact, it may be the 
brave action of one who gives up friends, place, and 
honor, to follow where truth leads. Where interested 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 21 3 

motives do not enter, and the mind conscientiously 
weighs the evidence, the decision reached, however er- 
roneous, can never be morally culpable. To speak of 
a mind as drifting, is to use an inapt metaphor, for the 
sanest and most sympathetic minds may move in op- 
posite directions under apparently similar influences. 
Lowell, the son of a Unitarian clergyman, diifts late in 
life into the Episcopal Church, and accepts a sequence 
of dogmas he had been taught to disbelieve. Holmes, 
the son of an Orthodox clergyman in the samiC city, 
drifts into Unitarianism, rejects the Calvinistic scheme 
of redemption, and anchors his faith on the boundless 
love of God. 

As in space, outside the solar system, there are no 
points of compass, so in pure thought, apart from 
dogma, there is neither height nor depth, right hand 
nor left ; all movement being equally free and fluid 
within the limits of the orbit traced by the Creator of 
intelligence. 

This was not understood or believed in Ouabbin, and 
a change of views on the part of one who had been as- 
sisted in college was considered a sin of the deepest 
dye. So one young man found to his sorrow. He had 
taken his academical degree, and then had to tell his 
benefactor he was not going to study divinity, because 
he had become a Unitarian. The wickedness and in- 
gratitude of that man, and his utter shamelessness ! 
And there was no remedy nor punishment ; he had got 
his Latin and Greek, and it could not be shaken out of 
him ; and he could not be made to preach what he did 
not believe. His apostasy was for some years a dam- 
per to the enthusiasm for raising up ministers by 
*' eddicatin' " poor young men. 



214 QUABBIN 

People did not think of the struggle and pain which 
the change had cost Jiim, of the imputations upon his 
honor and manliness, of the thrusts at his indigence, 
of the breaking of old friendships, and the blight upon 
his future life. Those who. knew him saw by his 
countenance how he had suffered. His clothes, too, 
were well worn, and his pockets light, when he went 
away from Quabbin, never to return. 

Suppose he had taken the other course, and patched 
up a compromise with his conscience, — and it is prob- 
able that many have done so, — what a strain would it 
have been to do what was expected of him ! to be 
silent before a confiding people as to the composition 
and modernness of many parts of the sacred canon ; to 
ignore science and history in expounding Genesis, with 
regard to the age of our planet, the duration of human 
life, or the origin and fortunes of the Jewish people ; 
to be silent upon the dual source of parts of the hexa- 
teuch, and upon the confounding of two prophets of 
different eras under the name of Isaiah ! furthermore, 
to ignore the truth that morals is a progressive science, 
and that the dealings of God with men are probably as 
intimate and authoritative now as in any previous age 
of the world. Most well-read clergymen know the 
facts established by biblical criticism, and know that 
they are none the less true because sometimes urged 
with indecent rancor by scoffers. 

The scientist- does not blindly repose upon the theo- 
ries of Kepler or Newton, but looks for any new light 
upon celestial mechanics. The physician admits that 
anatomy and therapeutics have been developed since 
Galen and Ambrose Pare ; the lawyer knows that Coke 
upon Littleton, an excellent treatise once^ is mostly ob- 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 21 5 

solete to-day. Why, alone among learned men, must 
the preacher be held to defend corrupt texts, mistrans- 
lations, and false exegesis, and to prove that to be 
stationary which has never ceased to rise and to ad- 
vance with the advancing and broadening ideas of 
mankind ? We are told that such inquiries lead to infi- 
delity. Do wefear to know the truth in chemistry or 
in biology .'^ Do we not sift every new discovery in the 
laws of nature.'' And shall v/e conceal what is true in 
regard to the Book on which the hopes of millions rest ? 
The experiences of those students who accepted 
help from individuals or societies are worth consider- 
ing. In spite of all that is said about reciprocal 
brotherly love, and of bearing one another's burdens, 
there is always some risk of injury to the delicate feel- 
ings and to the moral fibre of the recipient of alms. 
When he comes under an obligation, he is no longer 
his own master. He must be ready to render an ac- 
count not only of the use he makes of his income, but 
of his dress, his company, and all his doings. The cut 
of a coat, the color of a cravat, or a chance visit to the 
city, may upset him in the mind of his patron. He 
dares not purchase books, except text-books, though he 
may be hungering for intellectual food. Then the 
habit of borrowing in itself does him infinite harm. 
When an emergency arises, he does not shrink, as he 
ought, from incurring debt. Getting relief through 
the pockets of another, like the recourse to the pawn- 
shop, or the use of opium or stimulants, becomes in 
time a chronic disease, which may take a lifetime to 
get rid of. Clergymen, whose income in many par- 
ishes is partly eleemosynary, are apt to become habit- 
ual borrowers. They will pay, but they will always be 



2l6 QUAE BIN 

pushing loads of debt before them as upon hand-bar- 
rows. By the time one loan is paid they are in straits 
for another, and so they go on, forever behind-hand. 
Others besides clergymen get into the baneful habit. 
Trusting and guileless themselves, they are apt to at- 
tribute the same generous feelings to others, and do 
not dream that, with every application for temporary 
assistance, they are lowering themselves before the 
willing or unwilling creditor. 

Bursaries and fellowships are legitimate aids to in- 
digent students, but, unfortunately, they are attainable 
by few. 

Character stands for so much more than culture, that 
it may well be doubted whether a collegiate course paid 
for by the benevolent is worth what it inevitably costs 
in moral deterioration. A youth who has made a fair 
beginning, and has a taste for classical and mathemati- 
cal studies, will be sure to pursue them, even without a 
tutor. But, whatever he does, even to the renunciation 
of his hopes and dreams, will be likely to be better for 
him in the end than a college degree for which he has 
run in debt. 

Young men think that upon graduating they will 
have no difficulty in speedily earning enough to pay 
back with interest what they have borrowed, but oppor- 
tunities for lucrative employment are rare, and, with 
the increasing numbers of educated men, are becoming- 
rarer. The teacher or tutor in our day seldom earns 
more than enough to support himself reputably ; and 
after some years the thought ot his college debts be- 
comes worse to him than a convict's ball and chain. 

Besides, at three or four and twenty, his feelings as 
a man, long held under guard, begin to assert them- 



COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 21/ 

selves. He meets ladies of his own age, and the voice 
of nature cannot be always silenced. He may dally 
and resist ; but the chances are that at some unguarded 
moment he will speak, and that he will find himself 
bound in honor to some trustful damsel, long before he 
has attained a position that will enable him to marry. 
The whole business is thorny and perplexing, and be- 
comes all the worse with the increasing requirements in 
collegiate and professional courses. The Creator could 
not have intended that all the years of early manhood 
should be spent in a struggle with celibacy. There 
should be some way to begin earlier, and to push for- 
ward faster, the higher education, so as to bring the 
student into working relations with the world before 
the bloom of his best years has departed, and his coun- 
tenance, as well as his spirit, is ''sicklied o'er with the 
pale cast of thought." This feverish condition of ado- 
lescence is something to be seriously considered, and 
the youth who is looking forward to seven years of 
study and self-restraint should be sure that he has the 
will and the power to carry him manfully through to 
the end. 

One student, a rich man's son, was rather coltish 
while in college ; but he settled down, and became a 
staid and respectable man, though always of a joyous 
nature. He was well liked by all classes, and in later 
years held important public offices. From him and 
his family and friends came much of the influence that 
raised the district schools. A diverting story was told 
of one of his boyish capers. Whether it was owing to 
his "cutting" morning prayers, — the unpardonable 
sin in those days, — or inattention to study, or some 
more signal breach of college rules, he had fallen under 



2l8 QUAE BIN 

reproof, and did not seem to amend. As his marks for 
lessons and conduct continued to be unsatisfactory, 
the *' Prex " sent for him and told him he had written 
to his father to state that, if there were not a speedy 
improvement, his connection with the college would 
cease. The young man bowed, retired, and reflected. 
It was Saturday evening, and the next mail-stage for 
Quabbin would leave on Monday morning. That stage 
carried an unexpected passenger, who, on arrival, got 
off at the post-office, waited until the mail was sorted, 
then asked for letters for the family, received the one 
that had been written by the '' Prex " to his father, and 
thereupon returned by stage to college, without troub- 
ling his family with a call. That pressing danger 
averted, he did better. The *'Prex" doubtless thought 
the father rather indifferent to the well-being of his 
son. 

He was probably the only college graduate of his 
generation in Quabbin who did not study for the 
ministry. 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 219 



CHAPTER XXIII 

MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 

Herman Field taught a select school in the old 
Masonic Hall in Ouabbin one summer during the reign 
of the third minister. He was not an ill-looking man 
even at first sight, but whoever looked at him twice 
recognized the distinctive marks of character and power. 
He was of good height, well proportioned, with a large 
head, prominent features, fair hair, and violet-blue eyes 
fine enough for a woman. It is needless to mention a 
beard in any description of the time, for everybody, 
except Jews and foreign fiddlers, was smoothly shaven. 
For an excellent reason he was not any whit too well 
dressed ; but whatever he wore was neat, and never in 
the least shabby. His face could not be called hand- 
some ; but when he talked he seemed to those who met 
his eyes so truthful, animated, and kind, that he won 
all hearts. 

He was at the end of his third year in college, and 
was on leave of absence for twelve weeks. He was 
born in Northern Vermont, where his father had a small 
farm. For his education he had had a little assistance 
from relatives, and had worked a few months each year, 
except the last, as a lumberman on some of the tribu- 
taries of the St. Lawrence. He was a strong and reso- 
lute youth, and swung a mighty axe. As he lived and 



220 QUABBIN 

dressed with the utmost simplicity, he had been able 
up to that time to make both ends meet. Hence it was 
that his hands were rather large, with stout joints and 
hard palms. With delicate, well-gloved hands, and a 
newer suit, he might have been a noted figure any- 
where. His complexion, hair, and eyes were Saxon, 
and there was a tradition that his mother was the grand- 
daughter of one of Burgoyne's captured Hessians. 

On his arrival he had called, as a matter of courtesy, 
upon the minister and Deacon Rawson, both of them 
members of the school committee, and upon Mr. Grant. 
Being invited to tea at the house of the latter, he met 
the daughters, and was dazzled. 

Althousfh Ouabbin was loath to acknowledsre it, these 
young ladies were both beautiful. Venus herself would 
have been pronounced ill-favored by the damsels at the 
foot of Olympus or Ida, if they had imagined her super- 
cilious and "airy." Eliza Grant, being tall, was spite- 
fully called the '' hay-pole," and Lois, who was short, 
was known as the '' chunk." Eliza, a slender and fair 
girl, with dark hair and gray eyes, had a gift that is 
rare with her sex, a natural talent for mathematics. 
She was never more agreeably occupied than in geom- 
etry or algebra, and it was said she had made some 
progress with more abstruse branches. In her reading 
she preferred the logical works then in vogue, such as 
Paley's " Evidences," and some of the Bridgewater Trea- 
tises. Latin she .liked to the extent of reading Livy 
and Sallust, but she did not care for Virgil. In her 
opinion yEneas was a poor creature, and Djtlo a silly 
widow who had not profited as she should have done by 
one experience. On the side of sentiment she was far 
from callous : she was intensely feminine and delicate ; 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 221 

but this side of her nature was seldom exhibited, and 
scarcely acknowledged to herself. 

Her sister Lois had a taste for languages. Virgil 
was her favorite author. In French she had followed 
eagerly the adventures of Telemaque, and had wept 
over the woes of Corinne. Besides, she had read a few 
cantos of the *' Inferno," a thing almost unknown in that 
day. In her manner she was open and engaging, ap- 
parently as playful as a kitten ; but in fact she was dis- 
posed to flirt, though no one would have guessed it 
from her innocent brown eyes. 

After the tea, at which Eliza presided, and during 
the music that followed, Herman Field had time to 
take account of his impressions. He had never in his 
life been in a city, and had never before been seated at 
a table with young ladies like these. It was in vain he 
said to himself that they were flesh and blood like other 
people ; for they were quite unlike any women he had 
met. Such nicety in the results of the toilet ; such 
style in dress and adornment ; such simple and serene 
manners, and unconscious ease of mov^ement ; such 
graceful hands ; such musical voices, perfect accent, and 
easy, unpedantic English, — all these things came to 
him in a series of surprises, and made a revelation that 
never comes but to one who is country born. 

Some French books on the table led to conversation, 
in which it appeared that the visitor had no knowledge 
of that language except what he had learned from the 
patois of Canadian raftsmen. He admitted also his 
ignorance of Italian, but gratified Lois by praising her 
favorite Virgil. 

Then by inquiry he learned what were Eliza's studies, 
and what ground she had gone over, and he saw that 



222 QUAE BIN 

she was quite in advance of him. He began to think 
that a college course which left out modern languages 
and applied science, — the chief subjects of living in- 
terest, — was a mouldy relic of medisevalism, and that 
a dep^ree based on such a course was a fetish. Here 
were two young women who were his equals in most 
things, and his superiors in many, and had spent fewer 
years in study than he had, and they were not spec- 
tacled nor unsexed nor dried up, but fresh and bloom- 
incr. He was humiliated. 

But reflections upon courses of study could not long 
occupy his mind while he was in such company. For 
the first time he recognized the power that grace and 
culture lend, and felt that there was no creature on 
earth like a woman of beauty and intelligence, with 
refined manners and speech. It seemed to him, further, 
that this was a new discovery, made by him for the first 
time in the world. 

He was prolonging his visit quite beyond the usual 
limit, but seemed fascinated, and powerless to depart. 
He persuaded the young ladies to sing again, and then 
rose to leave. Mr. Grant came in opportunely, and a 
few words of ordinary courtesy were exchanged. Then 
Field departed, a heavy-hearted man. The fall in his 
barometer was caused by a complex idea which came 
in a flash : — 

i One year more in college. 

/ Three years afterwards at a seminary. 

/ And then? What would happen then? That was the rub. 

For he was two and twenty, full of vigor, with not a 
fibre lax ; and his whole nature, like some perfectly 
strung and perfectly attuned instrument, was ready to 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 223 

throb with harmonies if touched or even breathed 
upon. 

A few days later Field met Miss Lois Grant on the 
street, and was intending to pass with a bow, but 
stopped as he saw she was about to speak. After the 
usual greeting, she said, — 

" Our cousin Harry Lyman is with us for a few 
days, and we are thinking of a walk over ' the moun- 
tain,' as people call our small hill," pointing to the 
sharp cone behind the meeting-house; "and, as it will 
be new to you as well as to him, Eliza and I have 
thought you might like to go with us." 

"I shall be delighted, if " — 

"If you are at liberty ; yes, we thought of that, and 
have fixed upon to-morrow afternoon, when you have 
half a holiday." 

" You are very kind. I thank you for thinking of 
me. I will go with you, with pleasure." 

About three o'clock the next day, Field, with the girls 
and their cousin Harry Lyman, started up the North 
Hill. There was scarcely a visible path, and the bushes 
were thick and scraggy ; but the ascent, though 
steep and rough, was not long, and the crown of the 
hill was soon reached. There was not a fine tree, or a 
spring of water, or a w^ild-flower on the way, — a most 
uninteresting little hill ; but, as the party went on, 
the view began to broaden, and in a short time they 
came to a clearing and a tolerably level path. 

Field had not thought of making choice of a com- 
panion, preferring to leave everything to chance, and he 
talked with one or another, as it happened. But after 
a time Lois, the younger, leaving her sister and cousin 
to go on before, fell back and walked with Field. It 



224 QUAE BIN 

was quite indifferent to him with which of them he 
should walk, only he had fancied that he might be more 
at ease with Eliza, who was less vivacious, and nearer 
his own age. He was not awkward, but rather shy, 
and willing to let his companion take the lead. 

''You spoke of Canada the other day," said Lois. " I 
should like so much to visit it. ]\Iost of the romance 
of the continent hangs about the old French settle- 
ments." 

"Yes," he answered, "I have often been in Canada; 
it is not very far from my home ; but there was no room 
for romance in a lumberman's life. I have been through 
the Chateaugay, and on the Missisquoi River, and twice 
I have been to Montreal, though not as a tourist, Miss 
Grant." 

Lois thought there was a significant emphasis in the 
last phrase, and, looking at him inquiringly, said, — 

" And if you did not go as a tourist 1 " 

''With a party of men on a lumber raft," said Field 
simply. "We drifted slowly, and I had plenty of time 
for the scenery." 

"Then this distinguished-looking man has been a 
woodchopper," thought Lois; but what she said was, "I 
suppose Montreal is very beautiful." 

" It is beautifully situated, with a grand mountain 
behind it, and it has fine churches ; but it has nothing 
of the boldness or the niajesty of Quebec. Upon that 
high rock, and about its foot, you see what old France 
was, and what Britain has done with it. But I know 
Quebec very slightly. I never went there " — 

" Professionally," said the girl with a sly look, as if 
to help him out. 

*'No," said he with a smile, "not 'professionally;' I 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 22^ 

went to Quebec for pleasure, in a steamboat from 
IMontreal." 

Now to hear about Montreal and Quebec was not 
Lois's object ; she wanted to know about the past life 
of her companion. So, taking her courage in her two 
hands, and looking quite demure, she asked, " Do the 
lumbermen read Greek and Latin ? " 

"Not much," replied Field with a laugh. '* A little 
mathematics, enough to tell how many feet of lumber 
a log will ' scale,' is more to the purpose. But I see 
how it is. You wonder how a woodchopper became a 
student. Confess it now ! " 

Lois only smiled ; there was no need to speak, and 
Field went on, — 

" Well, I will tell you. I am a farmer's son. By 
chance I got a Latin grammar and reader, and after I 
had learned the rudiments I was no longer my own 
master. I was so possessed by the desire for knowl- 
edge, that I cared for little else. To go on with my 
studies it was necessary to leave home, and I was poor. 
When I was sixteen I took an axe and went into the 
woods, so as to earn enough to keep me at school. You 
see it is the reverse of what you thought ; it was the 
student that became a woodchopper. There were diffi- 
culties and trials, but not worth speaking about, since 
they are passed. At school and college I worked as I 
had done in the woods. It is strange when I think of 
it. I seem to have moved like a young whirlwind, — but 
why am I telling you this ! it cannot be interesting, 
and I beg your pardon." 

*'Yes, Mr. Field, it is deeply interesting. I have 
never had any obstacles to overcome, and when I hear 
you, I fancy myself strong and brave." 



226 QUABBIN 

A bright flush crimsoned his face as he said, " It 
was no bravery ; I couldn't help myself ; it was impos- 
sible to stop when I had my fate in my own hands, — 
in the shape of an axe-helve. Twice, since, I have 
spent some time with my old friends in the woods. 
This year I thought I would try keeping school for a 
change." 

''After you had become interested in your studies, 
wasn't it hard to go back to a logging-camp } " 

'* Yes, something of a shock ; some disconiforts." 

"And nothing to amuse yourself with." 

" Oh, yes ; there were sports. We caught pickerel 
through the ice, and we snared partridges and rabbits. 
But my main resource was in three thin books." 

'' May I ask what they were t " 

" The New Testament, the Odyssey, and Horace. 
Pitch-pine knots wxre plenty." 

" I really envy you. My cousin — not this one, not 
Harry — is quite pathetic over his hard study; but he 
has never earned a dollar, nor needed one. But you 
know the saying, yz;//j" coroiiat opus, and I suppose you 
have an object in view, something worth your labor 
and self-denial." Lois was finding her companion's 
quiet energy inspiring. 

"That is the difficulty," he replied. " I haven't any 
definite object, except to get the best outfit I can. I 
hope to find something worth doing." 

" And your parents and relatives } " 

" My relatives are troubled that I don't make a 
choice, but I think it is better to wait to see what I am 
fit for." 

" Perhaps they wish you to study for the ministry." 

" They do." 



MIGHT HA VE BEEN A ROMANCE 22/ 

" It is a noble profession," she said softly. 

"Yes, if a man felt that he was called to it," he 
answered, with something like a sigh. 

" I should suppose a man was '■ called ' to the profes- 
sion he was best fitted for." 

'* I believe that is true ; but some hold that a minis- 
ter should feel that a personal demand has been made 
upon him, as upon the infant Samuel. If that is what 
is meant by a 'calling,' I have none." 

''But you have no doubts, — no trouble about doc- 
trines } There has been lately a painful case here." 
The young man blushed suddenly to the roots of his 
blond hair, and after a slight hesitation said, — 

" No, I cannot say I have any serious doubts at 
present ; but suppose I should have, by and by } " 

" Sufficient for the day " — 

" That proverb may have two faces. My conscience 
does not trouble me now ; but now I am free. Sup- 
pose when the doubt came I were not free ; a change 
of faith then might mean dishonor." 

Just what this usually astute young woman had been 
aiming at by her leading questions she herself could 
not have told. Various trains of luminous thought 
shot through her brain, not consecutively, but com- 
mingled like the flashings of fire-flies. Now it was 
that her father might save this brave man from further 
trial and anxiety. Her father was rich enough ; still 
she knew he would not do it ; for he was one of those 
who had aided Graham, — he who had turned Unitarian. 
Now it was that four years must pass — and here she 
involuntarily made the addition of that figure to her 
own age. Now it was that her interest in a stranger 
was absurd, that her sympathy, perhaps, was of the 



228 QUAE BIN 

imaginative kind, such as one takes in the hero of an 
unreal drama. " At all events," she said to herself, 
"he is a man of mind, of feeling, and character ; and 
such eyes ! He is to be here twelve weeks more ; no, 
ten weeks only ; only ten weeks. We shall see." 

They had reached the part of the ridge from which 
they looked down upon the North Village, immediately 
under the cliff. At the distance it seemed only a 
spread of broad maple tops, with here and there a 
chimney or a bit of a white house showing through the 
interstices. There was also a factory, whose dull ugli- 
ness was relieved by the shrubbery on a brambly knoll, 
and then by a high hill behind it. The view is so 
unexpected, and so directly down, that it gives a singu- 
lar pleasure. 

Turning and looking westward, they saw successive 
raniies of wooded hills, that rose and receded in distant 
undulations. 

Field sat down with his companion to enjoy the pros- 
pect, and neither of them noticed that the other two 
had begun to descend. After a while he rose, walked 
a few steps westward, and, looking down, saw Eliza 
and her cousin far below, getting over the wall into 
the road that leads around the base of the hill to the 
village. 

** Come, Miss Grant," he said, returning to the place 
where he left her. " Come ! They have fully half a 
mile the start of us." 

He offered her his hand, but with a gesture she 
declined it, and at the same time made a quick move- 
ment to rise. In a moment her face became white; 
she groaned, but only half-audibly, compressed her lips, 
and then, staggering, sank back upon the turf, and lay 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 229 

unconscious. Field saw that she had fainted, and knew 
that there was no water or other restorative at hand, 
and no house within half a mile. He was naturally in 
a great perplexity. He looked again for Eliza and 
Harry, and found they had turned the curve of the 
road, and were out of sight. One of Lois's feet was 
left exposed, and he saw a hole in her boot, made by 
the short, sharp stub of a bush near by, on which was 
a stain of blood. Evidently she had trodden upon this, 
as upon a spike, and had, probably, also wrenched her 
ankle. The sudden pain had caused a shock that ren- 
dered her insensible. There was no time for reflection, 
nor for dallying. He quickly bound her injured foot 
and ankle with a handkerchief, and, taking her up care- 
fully, carried her like a child down the long slope of 
the pasture to the road. .He never knew how he man- 
aged to 2:et over the wall with his burden. The burden 
had grown momently more precious, and in all his 
veins ''the eloquent blood told an ineffable tale." 

He placed the girl upon a grassy bank at the road- 
side and waited, hoping that some vehicle would pass 
on its way to the village. None came, and he again 
took her in his arms and was walking on, when she 
opened her eyes. They were dazed with surprise, and 
then wild with terror. '' What has happened t How 
dare you.'* Put me down, I say ! " 

"Dear Lois," he said gently, ''you fainted from the 
injury to your foot and ankle. There was nothing to 
be done but bring you down the hill." 

"I will walk," she said with wounded dignity. But 
when he lowered her from his arms she could not put 
her wounded foot to the ground, and he was obliged to 
save her from fallins:. 



230 QUABBIN 

" You had better sit here on the bank," he said ; 
*' some one may come with a wagon." 

He assisted her to a comfortable seat, and stood at a 
respectful distance. Meanwhile the girl wept, — sin- 
cere, maidenly tears ; and, between physical pain and 
offended modesty, she sobbed like an infant. 

Before long a wagon came in sight, and the girl, 
having been lifted into it by Field, was tenderly car- 
ried home. 

The injury to the foot and ankle, though painful, was 
not very serious, and it soon yielded to treatment ; but 
there might be impalpable effects more lasting. 

Eliza was usually amiable and sympathetic, but on 
this occasion, after the doctor's visit, she was quite 
acrimonious in her colloquy with her sister. Said 
she, — 

'' The village people will all be talking of your acci- 
dent, and they won't spare you." 

" What can they say .'' " 

"They will hint more than they will say. They may 
intimate that a girl might be willing to sprain her ankle, 
just a little, to be carried in a young man's arms." 

*•■ Well, sister Eliza, let //ie7n say such mean things 
rather than you." 

"I suppose," said Eliza, with a little nervous laugh, 
"that your hero availed himself of the proximity of a 
pair of lips." 

"Eliza Grant," said Lois with indignation, "I 
shouldn't answer the insinuation, for my part, but it 
touches a man who would be too proud to defend him- 
self, however much he felt hurt by it. So, let me tell 
you that a father couldn't have been more tender to 
his child, nor an angel nicer to a nun. I am ashamed 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 23 I 

of you! I know no more of Mr. Field than I have seen 
to-day, but I think there are few men like him." 

" He has a zealous defender." 

" He needs none." 

''And why did you possess yourself of him, in place 
of Cousin Harry 1 " 

" You have always ' possessed yourself ' of Cousin 
Harry before." 

" Yes ; but I might have wished to talk with the 
schoolmaster to-day. What had you to talk about all 
the afternoon .'' " 

" He told me something of his past life." 

''And his hopes for the future, perhaps." 

" Not one word." 

"When a man becomes confidential as to his history, 
it is generally a prelude." 

" To a declaration, you mean. Well, my kind sister, 
let me tell you that no word of love, or even of friend- 
ship, was spoken." 

"Then all your arts were vain." 

" I used no arts." 

" O sister, you are known. You look innocent, 
but you are sometimes ' spidery,' as I have heard you 
confess. 

"If I am ever 'spidery,' it is toward foolish creatures 
who deserve to be caught. Mr, Field would make any 
'spider' forego her instincts, and become a vegetarian. 
You can try him for yourself when he comes again." 

" Thank you, sister ; our experiences would not be 
equal. / wouldn't sprain my ankle, not even to be 
carried in arms by a father, or — what was it ? Oh, yes, 
— or an angel." 

Lois turned away her head, too much annoyed to 



232 QUABBIN" 

continue the conversation. It was unusual for her sis- 
ter to show such irritation. There was 3. possible cause, 
but she did not like to assume it. 

After the accident to the "chunk," tongues were 
busy and eyes were on the watch ; but Field, who had 
learned from the doctor that the accident was slight, 
simply left his card at the house, and then kept aloof, 
that there might be no ground for gossip. Mr. Grant 
was not the confidant of either daughter, and he 
naturally was silent. 

There are things that cannot be undone, and the 
arms that had held Lois Grant would not forget the 
pressure of the form they had enclosed. They had 
held heaven for a minute ; the thrillins; sensation at- 
tested that ; whether the heart was engaged was another 
matter. Field was resolute not to put himself again in 
the way of temptation ; yet some disturbing influence 
was all the time confusing his points of compass as he 
walked, as if his way home were not toward his one- 
story boarding-house, but in another direction. 

Six weeks passed, and he had not called again ; Lois 
and Eliza had counted the time. Had he been as art- 
ful as he was guileless, he could not in any other way 
have awakened so surely their curiosity and interest. 
I say "their," because Eliza had proposed that when he 
called she v/ould look a little closer at the paragon. 
But he kept away from them, and yet made no calls 
elsewhere ; so said the gossips, and they knew. 

Three weeks passed, and there remained but one 
more. He began his farewell calls with the minister, 
who was very affable. Learning that his visitor had 
some thought of studying divinity, he broke out into 
an eloquent discourse in his finest phrases, upon the 



J 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 233 

duty and delight of vServing the Master, and suggested 
that even when the whole world had been converted, 
and the souls of all men were kindled with divine love, 
the enthusiastic Christians would seek for new worlds 
to conquer, and would even try to build a railroad to 
the fixed stars, so as to carry to the remotest bounds 
of the universe the blessed news of Christ's redemption. 

Of any practical suggestion as to the completion of 
his studies there was not a word. With a charmins: 
smile the minister bade him farewell. 

After calling on Deacon Rawson and the young doc- 
tor, who had, as he said, ''reduced the luxation of the 
talus " on that fateful day, Field thought he must at 
least leave a card with the Misses Grant. Much a£:i- 
tated in fact, but outwardly calm, he called, and was 
shown in. Miss Eliza, as it happened, was out of town, 
and Lois alone received him. A great joy and a great 
fear fell upon him together. He seemed to float in air, 
and words came which he had not sought ; so that his 
manner was easily confident while his knees were shak- 
ing, and his phrases were neatly turned while he did 
not know what he was saying. 

What he had been thinking about during the nine 
weeks since he had carried that charming girl in his 
arms he could not have told. But there were indica- 
tions of a struggle ; his studies had been neglected ; he 
had been moody and silent ; and his landlady had told 
a neighbor that he had become "amazin' differkilt abaout 
his vittles." But now he thought he was calm. On 
one point he was immovably determined, and that was 
not to approach her, but to leave an ample cool space 
of air between her sphere and his own. Moreover, he 
would not speak to her except in the ordinary language 



234 QUABBIN 

of civility. There was but the shghtest reference to 
the incident that for half an hour brought them so near 
together. He was nervous, like most persons acting a 
part, but carried himself fairly well. She had half ex- 
pected some tender words, and wondered at his indif- 
ference or singular self-command. Their conversation 
was void of all interest, mere banality ; yet both were 
giddy with excitement. He saw that the scene was 
becoming painful, and rose to take leave; and she, 
stepping frankly forward, held out her hand. As he 
took it, their eyes met; and in an instant — neither 
could tell how it happened — in an instant her head was 
against his breast, and his arms were around her neck. 
The movement was not consciously his. 

Then, with a sudden effort, and with something like 
the cry of a lost soul, — if souls ever cry audibly, — he 
seized her hand, kissed it passionately, tore away from 
her, while a flood of tears came from his eyes, and left 
the house. 

He was gone ; he had not uttered a word of love, 
and he had not kissed her lips or cheeks. He was a 
more inscrutabiC problem than ever. 

Herman Field should have returned to college, but a 
new resolution seized him. He packed his trunk to be 
forwarded, and, with a lio-ht hand-basf, set out on foot 
northward on the very evening of the close of his 
school. He was, like Bunyan's Pilgrim, in haste to 
leave the City of Destruction. Nothing could detain 
him. He walked till midnight, and slept in a barn, 
then breakfasted at a farmhouse, and went on. So for 
two or three days he pushed forward, until he came 
upon a route where stage-coaches passed ; and by that 






MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 235 

line he was carried within a few miles of his father's 
house. 

How he was received by the family, of which he was 
the idol and the hope, need not be told. After the 
embraces and the kindly inquiries that follow long 
absences, Mrs. Field said, — 

" Herman, we've some ruther bad news. I'm 'feared 
Uncle Parkman won't help ye no more, 'thout yeou 
make up yeour mind ter preach the gospel." 

"Why, what's started him in that direction }'' 

*'Ther' was a 'vangelist come along, an' got a-hold of 
him, an' told him thct all his money b'longed ter the 
Lord, an' thet he (uncle) was on'y the steward ; an' thet 
ter help edicate a lawyer or doctor was wastin' the Lord's 
treasure. The end on't was, he made uncle promise 
thet ef you didn't 'gree to preach, the money should go 
ter him (the 'v^angelist) fer some young man he knows." 

"■ As well as he knows himself, I suppose. Well, 
dear mother, don't be troubled ; I've had three years in 
college, and that I am sure of. If I don't get any 
more, I must try to do the best with the education I 
have. W^e won't trouble Uncle Parkman. But I say, 
mother, .where's Susy } " 

" Wal, Herman, you wasn't to know abaout it, but 
I s'pose it '11 hev ter come aout. She's ben over to 
Burlin'ton." 

*' In Burlington } What is she there for } " 

'' Goin' tu school. She said she couldn't abear to 
hev the edication all on one side o' the haouse ; so she 
went over ther' jest arter you went away. She has 
come home now an' then, but she's ben tu school most 
a year." 

'•' And when is she coming home } " 



236 QUADBIN- 

" The school was shct abaout a month ago, but she 
wanted to stay a leetle longer fer her music ; an' this 
last month she's ben doin' nothin' but play the planner. 
Her mother's to git one fer her." 

**Mrs. Gilbert buying a piano for Susy! why, it's 
fairly snowing and hailing wonders ! But you don't 
say when she is coming." 

*' No ; wal, it's naow 'baout five o'clock, an' I sh'd 
think yeour father 'd naterally git here by six." 

" And father has gone for her ? " 

" Yis, with Mis' Gilbert's wag'n, foraourn ain't a very 
good-goin' concern." 

That was the longest hour Herman Field ever spent. 
He almost counted the niinutes. 

At lenirth the wa^on-wheels were heard : and he 
rushed out of the house, hatless, and met the party on 
the green plat in front. There was a quick "Hullo, 
dad !" and then Susy was helped, or rather lifted, out. 
The greeting for the " dad " would keep. He held the 
rather frightened girl in his arms, she wondering at his 
impetuosity, and gave her uncounted kisses. Then he 
held her at arm's length, and looked at her. Then he 
took her again in his arms and kissed her. 

" I'm fairly 'shamed o' yeou, Herman," said his 
mother. '* Du let the gal git her breath. Yeou tumble 
her abaout jest 's ef she was a cosset lamb." 

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," thought 
Susy, as she shook herself free from her lover's bois- 
terous caresses. Evidently he had not been flirting 
with girls down in Massachusetts, but had kept her 
image always bright in his heart. 

The end of this little romance is reached. Susy Gil- 
bert had grown up to be one of the brightest and 



MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 237 

sweetest of women, even in silent comparison with a 
nameless person in Ouabbin ; and she had developed 
tastes and aptitudes which were to make her the com- 
panion and the pride of an educated man. She had 
been under refining influences at Burlington ; and she 
was to return for six months or a year to continue her 
studies. 

Field taught the district school for the ensuing win- 
ter, and later, having a solid knowledge of mathematics, 
fitted himself to become a civil engineer. Uncle Park- 
man's money went off by the hands of the evangelist ; 
also various earrings, brooches, and finger-rings, con- 
tributed in a moment of religious frenzy by admirers at 
a farewell meeting. Mrs. Field said of the evangelist, 
that "she didn't know rightly about his convarting sin- 
ners so's ter hev 'em stay convarted, but he was a 
master hand for preachin' jewlry off'm saints." 

Field continued his membership in the church, but 
never regretted the choice he had made of a profession, 
nor his hurried departure from Ouabbin. 



238 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXIV 

THE CIDER-MILL 

Abijah Crombie's cider-mill was somewhat off the 
main road, upon a bank that sloped toward the river. 
The outlook from the front of the mill in early autumn 
was delightful to those who can see beauty in simple 
thinsfs. There was a broad meadow with natural ine- 
qualities, never tormented by cultivation, covered with 
a second growth of thick, dark grass, flecked with white 
and golden blossoms, and dotted with tall plants resem- 
bling spirea, but classed ignominiously with "weeds." 
Along the farther margin was the familiar ragged 
fringe of alders, through which was seen at intervals 
the shining blue-black surface of the river, placid at 
this point, and lazily moving in dim wrinkles and swirls. 
So inky was the water one could hardly imagine it to 
be the same stream which whitened over the dam, and 
played with the brown and yellow stones in the rapids 
near the village. 

The narrow lane which passed the cider-mill led 
down to a wooden bridge that spanned the river, — 
a skeleton bridge made by some carpenter unskilled in 
geometry, a bridge which confounded lines, whether 
parallels or perpendiculars, and which appeared to have 
crouched on all fours, so as to let the cattle cross on its 
back to the hill pastures oj^posite, on the side of Great 
Ouabbin. 



THE CIDER-MILL 239 

The lane was bordered by zigzag fences, in the cor- 
ners of which were brambles, plumes of golden-rod, 
pink spikes of hardback, burdocks, with leaves like 
elephant's ears, and all sorts of useless luxuriance. 
Leaves were beginning to fall, and the lane seemed to 
have been carpeted with stuffs from Persian looms for 
the cows to walk over. 

On account of its situation upon the slope, the mill 
had two stories in front, and one in the rear. Carts were 
driven in from the lane to unload apples at the upper 
level, and then taken around to receive barrels of 
cider at the lower. The mill might have been called 
a shed without hurting anybody's feelings. Many of 
the sheathing boards and shingles were split, or warped, 
or loose ; and little of a burglar's art would have been 
required to open the rickety doors, fastened by wooden 
latches and pins. The building had never been painted, 
and its rough sides had the tone of soft gray, which is 
so pleasing in pictures, and so melancholy in fact. 

The upper story was a receptacle for apples, from 
whence they were poured through an inclining trough 
into the grinding-mill below. The visitor who entered 
upon the lower level saw a pair of upright wooden 
cylinders, placed near together, and revolving in oppo- 
site directions, so as to crush the apples drawn in be- 
tween them. Teeth upon one cylinder fitted into holes 
in the other, to facilitate the crushing. The power 
was supplied by a horse travelling in a small circle, 
and moving the lever which turned the motor-wheel. 
The machinery was of the rudest sort, wholly of wood, 
but easily managed, and efficient. The pomace fell 
into a large shallow vat (presumably clean), and was 
scooped out by wooden shovels when a form was made 



240 QUAE BIN 

up to be pressed. The form was simply arranged. A 
sheaf of clean straw was spread out evenly upon a 
platform, which was grooved with channels, and placed 
directly beneath a large perpendicular screw depending 
from a solid frame. Upon the layer of straw the 
pomace was spread like a boy's jam ; that is to say, 
considerably more jam than bread. Then a second 
even layer was spread at right angles to the first ; then 
more pomace and more straw, until the pile reached a 
height of two or three feet. A coping board was 
placed upon the top, and blocks were laid upon it. 
Then the great screw was turned with long wooden 
levers, and brought down upon the blocks, very gently 
at first, so that the pile might retain its consistency, 
then harder, until the last drops of juice had trickled 
out. 

If the apples were carefully picked over, excluding 
those that were rotten or wormy ; if all parts of the 
mill, including cylinders, channels, vats, shovels, and 
straw, were scrupulously clean ; and if the barrels were 
well-seasoned and sweet, the cider was certain to be 
pure and palatable. There were many ifs. 

Two boys, twelve and fourteen years of age respect- 
ively, who had been fishing at the bridge, and were 
carrying home a pickerel and a horn pout, lingered at 
the mill to get a sip of the cider, and to watch the oper- 
ations. All boys were delighted to suck the running 
juice with straws. They were not too dainty as to the 
cleanliness of the process, nor could they often be 
deterred by mischievous suggestions as to the flavor of 
wormy fruit. Of course the fluid was not intoxicating, 
but when taken too freely it was apt to work them woe. 

y\.x. Crombie's hired man, known to everybody by 



THE CIDER-MILL. 24 1 

the name of Dick, was turning the screw by means of 
a stout hickory lever ; and his puffy good-humored face, 
of a uniform pink, was overspread with a gently oozing 
perspiration. He knew the boys well, and their rela- 
tions with him were of the most friendly sort, 

'* I thank you very much for the neck-ribbon," said 
the elder boy to Dick ; " I wore it at the examination, 
and I shall keep it for Sundays." 

'''Twan't nothin'," said Dick, ''but you know I alius 
liked yeour father, an' I wanted yeou ter look ez 
smart's any o' the boys. A bit o' black ribbin don't 
cost much, an' I hev it in my heart ter du a good deal 
more fer ye, ef I could. Jes' be easy on the cider, 
'Ratio," addressing the younger lad. ''Mr. Crombie 
don't mind the vally on't, ef he is close, but I don't 
wanter see ye doubled up, ez ef ye was a worm on a 
fishhook. Don't take no more'n six or eight leetle 
sucks, an' then wait a spell, so's ter see ef it ain't goin' 
to give yeour innards a twist." 

" Why does the m.inister say folks oughtn't to drink 
cider.?" asked Horatio. "It doesn't make boys cross, 
nor their noses red." 

" Boys drink it sweet, afore it's worked," answered 
Dick. "Yeou boys may git a stummick-ache, but, till 
the cider's worked, it hain't no stingo." 

"What's ' stingo ' .? " 

" Stingo's sperrit ; sunthin' like rum. Arter cider 
gits old an' hard, it makes folks drunk, an' it makes 
'em bad-tempered tu." 

" How does apple-juice get spirit in it .? " asked Eli, 
the elder boy. 

" Jes' by fermentin' ; it's changed somehaow." 

" Couldn't the fermenting be stopped ? " 



242 QUABBIN 

" Not altogether ; but ef ye put a pint o' mustard 
seed in the barril, an' hang in the bung-hole a string 
'ith bits o' isinglass, an' then bung it up tight, 'twill be 
clear in twenty or thirty days, an' 'twon't hev tu much 
stingo. But, Eli," continued Dick, ''don't yeou never 
drink no hard cider, nor nuthin' thet hez sperrit in't. 
Take warnin' from me. I was 'counted a smart boy, 
an' I might 'a' been a smart man, an' hed a fam'ly o' 
my own. An' yeou see what I am naow. Everybody 
calls me Dick the drunkard. Don't yeou never du's 
I've done." 

Eli was touched by this sudden outburst, and asked 
sympathetically, " Couldn't you leave off t You are 
not old, and you might have a chance yet." 

Dick mournfully shook his head, and wiped his eyes 
with his shirt sleeve. " No, 'tain't no use," he said ; 
"I can't du it. I've tried often 'nough. I alius say 
arter I've hed a spree, thet it's the last one ; but when 
I'm well over it the thirst comes, an' I can't stan' it. 
Folks think I've got no feelin's, but /know. I see ye, 
Eli, when I was ter the butcher's t'other day, and the 
boys hed put my heel in the hook o' the iron chain, 
and then wanted ter turn the windlass so's to pull me 
up like a dead critter, 'ith my hed hangin' daown ; I 
see ye, Eli, an' yeou wouldn't let 'em pull me up, an' 
yeou made 'em leave me 'lone in the chair till I hed my 
sleep. I see ye, an' I hain't forgot it, an' never shell. 
But don't du ez I've done. Tell your pa what I've told 
ye. HcW know why I take some int'rest an' pride in 
his boys." 

Dick went on with his work, shovelling out pomace, 
building it up in square heaps with layers of straw, and 
turning the screw with brawny arms. But he said no 



THE CIDER-MILL. 243 

more. He looked unutterable things, and wiped his 
red eyes. 

The two boys took their fish and poles and left him. 
They stopped at the rear of the mill where many heaps 
of apples lay on the grass, and then looked in at the 
upper story to see Mr. Crombie put apples in the 
trough that led down to the works. 

" Lemme see," said Mr. Crombie, " yeou're Eli an' 
'Ratio, the carpenter's boys, ain't ye } Air ye goin' 
ter skule } " 

Eli answered that they had been attending Mr. 
Field's select school, but that the term was just over. 

'' Yeou talk pooty wal ; what hev yeou ben a 
study in' } " 

"Arithmetic, geography, and Latin grammar." 

" Yeou've ben a-studyin' Latin ] What air yeou 
'xpectin' ter du or ter be 1 " 

'* I don't know. I mean to learn all I can." 

"Wal, it's curus what notions boys takes. Ef 
yeou're a good boy, yeou '11 help yeour father when 
yeou're big enough ; an' ef yeou du, yeou won't have 
any yeuse fer Latin. But I don't want ter discourao-e 
any boy : I hain't bed any larnin', an' 'sted o' studyin' 
books, I mostly study human nater, — an' here ez wal 
ez anywhere. In any o' them piles of apples I kin see 
the nater o' the man thet raised 'em, an' o' his father 
thet set aout the trees. This one is shif'less an' poor; 
thet one is forehanded an' stiddy. This one goes ter 
meetin' an' fears God ; thet one is wicked or keerless." 

" And do you know, then, whose they all are } " 

"Oh, yis ; I could a'most tell 'em by feelin' on 'em 
'ith my eyes shet." He went on, " Thet air pile, ye 
see, is full o' leaves an' bits o' leetle sticks. An' ye 



244 QUABBIN 

see the apples is bruised. Them hev ben knocked off 
the trees by pesky lazy boys, an' raked up, leaves an' 
all ; 'stid o' shakin' 'em off properly, an' pickin' up one 
ter time. They air Josh Aldrich's apples. That's the 
way he an' his boys du. Them red-streaks is Newman's. 
They're soft, an' orter a ben picked keerful. They air 
part bruised an' part rotten. Folks says rotten apples 
make good cider, but 'tain't so ; the rotten taste goes 
clean thru it. 

"Them leetle gnurly ones 'ith o'ny one cheek air 
Sherman's. 'Pears like they're goin' back ter wild 
apples. The trees air old, an' air run ter shoots an' 
suckers. They air tu fer gone ever to bear anythin' 
decent. But though them leetle, one-sided apples air 
sour 'nough to make a pig squeal, I'd ruther hev 'em 
for cider than better apples thet is part rotten. 

''Them green pippins ther' is Chandler's. He's hed 
all his trees grafted. They're good, but I shouldn't 
fancy hevin' all one kind. 

"Thet pooty pile layin' on a blanket is the Widder 
Howson's. She's nice, she is, an' won't hev no cider 
thet ain't ez clean ez a cup of her own tea. Them 
apples is all picked over an' washed an' wiped. Ef she 
was goin' to make a pie or a puddin', she wouldn't a* 
taken more pains. When she gits her cider she knows 
what she's drinkin'. 

" An' look at thet mons'ous big pile, all sorts, yal- 
ler, green, an' red. Them b'longs ter Lijah Hanks. 
He'll hev ten or fifteen barrils." 

" P'r'aps he'll sell some," suggested the boy. 

" Not he. It takes a lot o' cider to last him, even ef 
he doos put red pepper in't." 

" You said that the trees which bore those little 



THE CIDER-MILL 245 

apples were too far gone to be good for anything ; now, 
if the man that raised them should be a steady man 
and go to the meeting, would his apples be any better? " 

" Not till he hed better trees. But ef he was the 
right kind o' man all thru, he'd either Jicv new trees, 
or graff the old ones, or suntJiiii ^ 

*' Do you charge so much a barrel for making cider 
of people's apples ? " asked Eli, " or do you exchange, 
taking so many bushels for a barrel ? " 

" Sometimes one way, sometimes t'other ; an' some- 
times a man pays me so much a day for the use o' the 
mill. Most folks, who wanter know what they're goin' 
ter git, hev their own apples (which they've gathered 
an' picked over) made inter cider, arter hevin' the mill 
washed." 

The ingenuous faces of the boys impressed Mr. 
Crombie, and he evidently wished to efface the harsh- 
ness of his comment upon the study of Latin. '' I don't 
want ye ter think I'm ag'in larnin' ; an' though I can't 
see the good o' Latin, I'm alius glad ter see boys tryin' 
ter be well eddicated, an' ter raise 'emselves. On'y, 
alius remember thet the fear o' the Lord is the begin- 
nin' o' wisdom ; an' don't ye never let anythin' come 
atween yeou an' the faith o' yeour fathers." 

This earnestness touched the boy, quite as much as 
had the tender words of poor Dick. He had not real- 
ized how the hearts of right-minded people go out in 
sympathy with a youth who aims at qualifying himself 
for some honorable career. He had begun to see a 
vista opening before him, and looked forward to be- 
coming a disciple of the great and wise. The influence 
of Mr. Field had been stimulating and helpful. He 
was moved by vague presentiments, and there came a 



246 QUABBIN 

sense of uplifting by some power not his own. His 
outward appearance gave little indication of the dreamy, 
soaring mind. His face was striking only for the large 
and lustrous eyes, and for the shock of bushy hair. 
His clothes were poor, and evidently often mended, 
and his feet were bare. He was healthy and solid, but 
evidently knew nothing of the requirements of the 
toilet, nor of the manners of society. He was as simple 
and natural as a savage. 

He had taken the first step in a road that was to lead 
him far from the life of Ouabbin. Would he ever for- 
get how he looked in his patched suit, barefoot, and 
dangling a couple of fish ? 

'' Wait, Horatio," he said to his brother. " Wait a 
minute." He ran quickly to the lower story where 
Dick was at work. ''Dick," said he in a gentle tone, 
" if.you're ever in want of anything, come to our house. 
Mother '11 be good to you ; and you needn't think that 
nobody cares for you. It made me ache to hear you 
talk. There are some who care for you, a great deal." 

He did not wait for an answer, but ran back to join 
his brother. *' I wish that neck-ribbin could a' ben 
made o' gold an' di'monds," thought Dick. 



AJV EXIT 247 



CHAPTER XXV 

AN EXIT 

The third minister's orbit was not of great extent. 
His period near the sun of favor was short, and he 
soon entered upon the long curve which led through 
cold and gloom. 

People began to wonder what they had admired in 
him, or in his preaching. No one was willing to admit 
that he had actively favored settling him. The general 
expression was, " I never was, myself, so much carried 
away by his elerkence, but ez everybody else seemed ter 
be pleased, I thought 'twas my dewty to jine in." We 
have seen what were the deacons' opinions. Mr. Grant 
did not say much, but behind his gold spectacles there 
was a deal of thinking, and his manner to the minister 
was seen to be " offish." 

Certain young fellows learned the trick of pulpit 
rhetoric, and used to imitate the minister's a^litterins: 
sentences and high-pitched voice. He was discussed 
at the counting-room, the post-office, the stores, and the 
shoemaker's shop. The talk over the lapstone was 
especially damnatory. The new doctor took him up, 
and called him sophomorical ; and as people did not 
know what that meant, and the doctor was "a college- 
larnt man," it was supposed to be something very 
bad. 



248 QUAE BIN- 

No one could say that the formalities of duty were 
not observed. The sermons were of orthodox length, 
and earnestly delivered. Fresh texts were brought out 
every Sunday ; but after a few sentences the discourse 
somehow fell into old ruts of thought, and observant 
hearers soon perceived that in any half-dozen Sundays 
he went over all the solid parts of his repertory. 

" When sh'U we hev any revivle o' religion .'' " 

" When '11 come forrard the young to fill aour 
places .^ " 

"When 'II ther' be a-movin' 'mong the dry bones o* 
the church } " 

" Ther's sermons thet's all glitter, like a heap of 
icicles." 

'' Ther's talk thet hain't any life-givin' paower in't, 
more'n a Jinnuary moon 'd hev on a growin' punkin- 
^ne." 

Such were the current comments ; but most people 
were backward when a movement was proposed. Min- 
isters were formerly settled for life, and the feeling was 
still strons; that an incumbent had ri2fhts which were 
sacred. In the event of the minister's beins; dismissed 
against his will, it was felt that he would be entitled to 
compensation which might burden the parish. 

One day the whole town was startled by the report 
that a special meeting had been called to take action in 
regard to sundering the relation between the parish and 
the minister. In the village there was a general sense 
of relief ; but, when the meeting was held, it was found 
that the "otherwise minded " were out in full force, and 
were bent on mischief. They cared nothing for the 
interests of religion ; their only motive was to cross the 
leaders of the church and parish. 



AN EXIT 249 

Deacon Rawson stated the case for the church, and 
was discreet enough to state it mildly, and without any 
harsh words about the minister. There was no one 
among the dissentients who could speak with any effect, 
but they made plenty of noise in interruptions, and were 
ready to vote as one man. They seldom came to meet- 
ing, and their contributions counted very little in the 
parish treasury. 

After some skirmishing, Mr. Grant got the floor, and, 
addressing the moderator, said, in substance, — 

''It does me good to be present at this large meeting 
of the parishioners of Ouabbin. It is a good sign 
when upon a matter of general concern there is such 
an unusual turn-out. Our friends from the remote parts 
of the town have left their farms and their workshops, 
and have come to give us their counsel in the matter 
which has called us together. I am glad to see this 
wide-spread int-erest, especially on the part of those who 
come in all weathers to meeting, and pay so liberally 
for the support of the gospel. You all know who they 
are. Their zeal and good works are known to all men. 
They are those who strongly upheld the fearless course 
of our former minister. Now, if they were laggards in 
God's service; if they remained at home, or ran after 
new lights, or helped the Methodists ; if they had no 
heart in sustaining this church, and the doctrines and 
traditions of the fathers ; if they were loose in life, or 
irreligious at heart, we should consider it a little out of 
place, ?. little indelicate perhaps, to come here to take 
part in a matter in which they could have no real con- 
cern : we should say they ought to leave the choice of 
a minister to those who habitually go to hear one, and 
not to interfere, for motives which it would be improper 



250 QUABBIN 

for me to state in plain words. But as they are known 
to liave a deep interest in this church, we shall be glad 
to know what they have to say for its good." (Mr. 
Grant had a slight Yankee accent, but not enough to 
justify a change in spelling.) 

Said the moderator, *' Is the gentleman thru t Sup- 
posin' that he would conclude his speech with a motion 
he was 'lowed to go on. Ez he didn't make one, he 
was aout of order. There is no motion afore the 
meetin'." 

Deacon Rawson then moved to pass the resolution 
embodied in the call for the meeting. 

The ironical gibes of Mr. Grant had only the usual 
effect, namely, to harden the temper of the opposition ; 
but none of the party could make an effective reply, and 
they took their punishment in silence. 

One speaker favored the minister because he did not 
read written sermons; he had no patience with *'eler- 
kence studied out aforehand." He thought that when 
a preacher's mouth was opened, he would be told by the 
Holy Ghost what to say. 

Deacon Dodge asked the last speaker if he thought 
the days of miracles would come back. If so, they 
might look for the gift of tongues, the healing of the 
sick, and the raising of the dead ; as none of those 
things were more supernatural than the power of 
preaching without study. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Grant and a friend had made a count, 
and had satisfied themselves that, in spite of the noisy 
demonstration at the back of the hall, the meeting was 
controlled by the friends of the church. 

Having allowed ample time for all to express their 
views, Deacon Rawson moved that the main question 



AN EXIT 251 

be now put, which was carried. The moderator then 
stated the question, which was to the effect that the 
parish officers be authorized and directed to confer with 
the church and with the minister, with the view of 
bringing about an amicable separation ; and he added, 
'' This meetin' hez ordered thet the main question be 
naow put, and this isn't open ter 'mendment ner debate. 
The thing is to vote yea or nay on this ere resolution. 
Ef the yeas hev it, ther's an end of the business. Ef 
the nays hev it, then the way is open ter perpose sun- 
thin' else." 

The yeas were called for, and the hands were eagerly 
counted ; then the otherwise minded made their show, 
and were clearly in the minority. 

The church was almost unanimous for the change. 
At the conference, the minister said that the proposal 
was an injury to his reputation and to his feelings ; that 
he had hoped and expected to pass the remainder of 
his days among brethren who had received him so 
warmly, and whom he still loved. He enlarged upon 
his success in preaching, and hinted at the lustre 
thereby reflected upon 'the church ; and he wished to 
know in what he had come short of any just ex- 
pectation } 

Deacon Rawson, speaking for the church, declined 
to be drawn into a discussion, which was sure to be 
unpleasant, and could serve no good purpose, and said 
the case for the church and parish would be laid before 
the ecclesiastical council. 

Certain churches were thereupon invited to send 
each its pastor and a lay delegate on a day named. 
When the council assembled, the minister asked to be 
represented by a brothei in the Lord, the Rev. Dr. 



252 QUABBIN 

Windust, who had come a long distance for the purpos'-^ 
of stating his case. 

It was a very unusual proceeding, and was unfair, as 
the church and parish had no counsel; but the great 
name of the reverend doctor overawed the simple- 
minded brothers. Within an hour Deacon Ravt^son 
saw how matters were going, and whispered to Deacon 
Holyoke, " We hedn't orter let him in. He's a-goin' 
to twist the caouncil 'baout his leetle finger. He's sfoin' 
in for big damiges, and poor ol' Ouabbin 'U hev to 
sweat." 

It was even so. The doctor of divinity had a con- 
summate knowledge of the world, plenty of "cheek," 
and talent for pushing ; and he shoved this way and 
that among the innocent people he had to deal with, 
until he became as supreme as the Pope. 

It was admitted on both sides that the minister raust 
go, since the breach was irreparable ; the only question 
was as to compensation. On this point the " brother 
in the Lord " developed as much ingenuity and force 
as would have done credit to a leader of the metropoli- 
tan bar. He flattered the ministers, and put to them 
the arguuicntuDi ad homincni : — as much as to say, 
" How would you like it yourselves ? " He smoothed 
the lay delegates as if they had been tabbies. He 
poked fun at the deacons ol Ouabbin, and stigmatized 
that poor village as purse-proud and pretentious. And 
when he came to tell the minister's story, that gentle- 
man drew out a great silk handkerchief, blew his nose, 
and wept. The reverend orator went on, momently 
scaling new rhetorical heights, and likened his friend 
and client to Cicero, Massillon, Jeremy Taylor, White- 
field, and other celebrities. He talked long and well, 



AN EXIT 253 

but his matter was nearly exhausted, when, upon a 
nudge and a whisper from his heart-broken client, he 
made a fresh start. He began to tell the council of 
the minister's wonderful outbursts of eloquence, and 
said it would be with sincere diffidence that he should 
repeat even a sentence, as it might be spoiled from 
want of memory or skill on the part of the humble 
narrator; but he would try. And he did try. On 
account of its novelty the passage is herewith trans- 
cribed.i 

"The future glories of Christianity and the high des- 
tinies of the human race appeal with gigantic power to 
the hearts of all enthusiastic disciples. With prophetic 
eve I see the lono^ srenerations of men of all nations 
winding over Syrian sands on their pilgrimage to the 
haunts in Palestine that were hallowed by the feet of 
the Son of man. The lonsr strife wnth sin and evil is 
coming finally to an end. Pope and patriarch throw 
down their tiaras, cardinals strip off the scarlet livery 
of the mistress of the seven hills. The Chinese re- 
nounce Confucius. The Indian hermit arises from the 
life-long contemplation of the mystery of existence as 
shown in his own umbilical excision. 

"The Polynesian abstains from human flesh, and 
breaks bread under a missionary's roof. The crescents 
of thousands of mosques are made into sickles to reap 
the harvests of the world ; while sultans emancipate 
the inmates of their seraglios. Then, when the gospel- 
car has rolled triumphantly through every land ; when 

i Tlie transcriber obviously sliows some disposition to burlesque ; but though 
some passages of the speech may have been tampered with, there will be no doubt 
of the genuineness of the conclusion. 



254 QUABBIN 

every ship carries a white flag at her mast-head, and a 
Sunday-school in her forecastle ; when the Esquimaux 
shall have set up chapels, and raised the gospel banner 
at the North Pole, — then, my brethren, perhaps you 
suppose there will be nothing left for Christians to do ! 
Far from that ! The fiery zeal of the faithful must 
then have some other outlet ; and they will even try 
to build a railroad to the fixed stars, so as to carry to 
the remotest bounds of the universe the glad news of 
salvation." 

*' Was not that a sublime conception ? " demanded 
the reverend orator. Here Deacon Rawson tried to 
say that the people of Ouabbin had heard about noth- 
ing else but that railroad for some years ; but he was 
no match for the pertinacious brother in the Lord, and 
could not get in a word edgewise. 

Doctor Windust concluded by suggesting that the 
damages be fixed at five thousand dollars. The minis- 
ter was still weeping, or at least his face was covered 
by his ample handkerchief. 

Deacon Rawson said the sum named was monstrous ; 
that ''the perrish couldn't raise no sech pile o' money;" 
that they "couldn't squeeze blood aout of a turnip." 
He and his colleague were very earnest, and showed by 
the tax-lists that the payment of even half that sum 
would make it difficult to maintain the regular preach- 
ing for the next two years. 

The parties retired, and the council deliberated. 
When the doors were opened it was announced that the 
council recommended the dissolution of the pastoral 
relation, and that the minister should have a solatiimi 
of three thousand dollars. 



AN EXIT 255 

Then was seen an affecting tablcait in two parts. 
I. The minister and the Rev. Doctor embracing with 
ears of joy. II. Deacon Rawson and his colleague 
with countenances expressive of disgust. 

Said the deacon, *' I s'pose we sh'U hev to du it. We 
kin borrer the money, an' p'r'aps we kin pay it up in 
four or five year." 

And so disappeared the third minister. 



56 QUAE BIN 



CHAPTER XXVI 

ROBERT IV 

The fourth minister was one to whom in after times 
all goodness and graciousness were ascribed. To those 
who best knew him he was almost an ideal pastor, yet, 
like many a blessing, he appeared more lustrous in the 
after-glow of memory. The wonder was how a man of 
such ability, learning, and character contented himself 
with the prosaic society and often thankless labor that 
awaited a minister in Quabbin. It must have been a 
high sense of duty that led and kept him there; for he 
was the equal in intellectual force of the foremost 
orthodox preachers of his time. 

He was born in New England, the son of a Scotch 
clergyman. His accent was purely English; his unas- 
suming manners were those of the best society ; while 
his firm character, no less than his name, recalled his 
origin. His countenance and voice were impressive, 
although a careful description would not require any 
unusual adjectives ; for what was striking and memora- 
ble in him was the vague something which eludes de- 
scription. He was rather above medium height, solid 
but spare in figure, with a large and finely modelled 
head, regular features, a dull yellowish (but not un- 
wholesome) complexion, and steady gray eyes. The 
shirt collars of that time were high and projecting, 



ROBERT IV 257 

and his broad and bluish chin was sunk between two 
curving supports of starched linen, while the soft white 
neckcloth below was a mass of wrinkled folds. 

But when he spoke he touched a sensorium behind 
the organs of hearing, and then no one thought of the 
high-curving collar-points, the much-swathed neck, or 
the pale, lemon-tinted skin. For there was something 
m his penetrating yet kindly look, and in the rich tones 
of his voice, which awakened instant attention, and 
won the homage of every auditor. At certain times 
his face became more than beautiful, — since beauty, 
power, and tenderness were mingled, — drawing the 
hearts of hearers in sympathy, while at the same time 
reason and conscience felt the imperious summons to 
surrender. 

Such effects of soul in the human countenance recall 
the pictures of legendary saints, wherein the attempts 
of the masters to portray a spiritual illumination have 
led to preternatural high lights and emblematic haloes. 
No one in after years ever thought of that man in the 
pulpit, with the deep crimson drapery behind him, 
except with a beam of light touching his noble fore- 
head, and his features eloquent with divine love. 

The sermons of the good Robert IV. were direct 
and practical. Necessarily they were doctrinal, for he 
was wholly a Calvinist ; but the doctrine was the spirit 
of the sermons, and seldom their subject. They were 
never rhetorical, in the sinister sense of the word, but 
in style they were without fault ; for the minister was 
a scholar, and wrote with a purity and ease that had 
become instinctive. There was many a fine touch for 
an educated ear, but in substance there was nothing 
above the ordinary comprehension. All classes of 



2S8 QUABBIISr 

hearers were reached, yet very few Jcnew to what per- 
fect English they were listening. But as few people 
anywhere know the rarity of pure, fresh, and idiomatic 
style, the imperfect perception of the dwellers in Ouab- 
bin is not a matter of serious reproach. 

The minister was learned in theology, as far as con- 
cerned the affirmation and defence of the dogmas he 
held ; but neither he nor any man of his order had, up 
to that time, made any serious study of doubts or 
denials. The usual way was to set up an imaginary 
adversary on an impossible basis, and then easily bowl 
him down. Modern inquiry had scarcely begun upon 
the character and history of the sacred books ; and the 
plenary inspiration of Scripture in every chapter and 
verse was never questioned. Nor was ''the endless 
punishment of the finally impenitent " ever doubted, 
except by Universalists, Unitarians, and other infidels. 
The upheaval of conscience in the Orthodox Church 
against that terrible doctrine had not then begun ; so 
that, although the minister seldom ventured to draw 
those baleful pictures of the wrath of God with which 
Jonathan Edwards shocked the Connecticut Valley, yet 
in every discourse and prayer, the ''fearful looking-for 
of judgment and fiery indignation " was the thing un- 
derstood as being the background and alternative. He 
aimed to persuade, and to lead by tender appeals ; but 
every soul knew that the "terrors" lurked behind like 
menacing spectres. 

He had been distinguished in scholarship while at 
college, and afterward as an instructor ; but it may be 
doubted whether he esteemed classical studies and 
English literature as more than means of mental train- 
ing and temporary recreation. If he had felt the 



ROBERT IV 259 

abounding joy which fills the heart of an earnest and 
accomplished scholar, something of it should have 
overflowed ; and there were youths hungering for 
knowledge, who followed all his utterances. As, in 
the feeling of the time, the whole of this mortal life 
was none too long as a preparation for an endless 
future existence, all studies and recreations which had 
no bearing upon *' the one thing needful " were lightly 
regarded, or thrust aside. 

This minister's reading was broader and more varied 
than that of the second, — with the third there need be 
no comparison made upon this or any other subject, — 
but it would be considered narrow to-day. He doubt- 
less knew something of Shakespeare, but he would no 
more have thought of quoting him in the pulpit than 
of quoting Boccaccio or Rabelais. Gibbon's History 
was probably interdicted for its too celebrated sixteenth 
chapter ; Hume's, for his arguments against miracles ; 
Chaucer and Dryden for immodest license ; Pope for 
the rationalistic philosophy of the '' Essay on Man," 
and for the filth of the ''Dunciad." Swift, Prior, Gay, 
Herrick, Suckling, and many more were set aside for 
obvious reasons. In fact, an orthodox clergyman 
would have but a limited selection if he were to read 
none but unexceptionable books. The works of Eng- 
lish divines, with Bacon, Milton, Johnson, Gray, Col- 
lins, Cowper, and Wordsworth, and the class of religious 
books mentioned in a former chapter, made up the bulk 
of his library. 

The reviews which the fourth minister read were 
''religious," and any discussion of literature in them 
was incidental, and in the clerical manner. Nor was 
any purely literary periodical taken in the town. But 



26o QUAE BIN 

the minister was still strongly inclined to reading and 
study, and had the habits of a bookish man. Having 
inherited a small fortune, he was free from anxiety, and 
besides he had no desire for money. He was not in- 
different to the temporal welfare of his parishioners, 
but he never got the least knowledge of their farming 
or trades. Whether turnips grew on trees, or shoe-pegs 
were thrashed out of oat-sheaves, were matters of no 
consequence. He was not absolutely ignorant of the 
world's work, but it did not concern him. A horse was 
a necessary evil; a garden was a place for penance; if 
he had to harness the one or spade the other, he would 
not have accepted either as a gift. He had never been 
a gymnast, ball-player, or pedestrian. In the use of 
tools, and in regard to household jobs in general, he 
rivalled Emerson in helplessness. He lived in his in- 
tellectual and moral nature. Although pleasant and 
genial, he had no more points of contact with an ordi- 
nary man in regard to every-day affairs than a billiard- 
ball. If Farmer Sherman showed him his mighty 
oxen, the minister never thought to praise them ; in- 
stead of that, he mis-ht be thinkins: of the Greek terms 
for their rolling gait and calm eyes. John Ramsay 
wondered that he never gave a second glance at his 
''2.40" Morgan trotting-horse. It was a magnificent 
animal, whether at rest or in motion ; but the minister 
thought chiefly of the disagreeable shaking-up one 
would get to be driven at such speed, and of the pelt- 
ing of sand from the flying feet. He felt the beauty 
of the deep green meadows, starred with the gold of 
kingcups and cowslips ; but never thought of estimat- 
ing how many tons of grass they yielded to the acre. 
Sheep were picturesque as white dots on the hill pas- 



ROBERT IV 261 

tiires, or when massed under the farm sheds; but he did 
not know the weight of fleeces or the price of mutton. 

The elders of the church knew his devotion to his 
work; a few recognized dimly his attainments; all the 
parish felt the glow of his piety; yet there were few 
houses in which he was really at home, and few people 
who felt him to be near. They loved him and rever- 
enced him, but on a pedestal ; and, on his part, his 
senses were so delicate, and his tastes so refined, that 
the contact of many well-meaning persons was almost 
painful. Perhaps, also, the relations with his people 
would have been more intimate if he had not, with 
others causes for isolation, been childless. He always 
seemed to have his head in the clouds (figuratively 
speaking), even when he walked abroad with his rather 
stately wife ; with a child to lead them, the world would 
have had a new aspect. In making pastoral calls, when 
he came where young children were, his manner often 
became so solemn that the little creatures fancied 
there was some momently impending trouble, and be- 
gan to whimper. This forbidding austerity arose solely 
from his intense anxiety to " win souls to Christ." 

In regard to the affairs of the parish and the schools, 
he was a vivifying influence rather than a leader and 
manager. He made few personal efforts, not because 
he was lukewarm, but because he was diffident and un- 
skilful. A word from him had weight, and he was not 
slow to speak when there was occasion, but he did 
not know how to use his parishioners like chessmen. 
The rule of total abstinence was maintained in the 
church ; but, if he had been in the place of the second 
minister, he could not have preached that fiery sermon 
by the woodpile, nor terrified that drunken circle of 



262 QUAE BIN 

mourners. He had the courage to preach against 
slavery, and described it as " a cancer eating into the 
vitals of the nation ; " but his sermon, like the common 
denunciation of the scribes and pharisees, dead near 
two thousand years, led to no practical result. One old 
man in Quabbin had for many years cast an anti- 
slavery vote, amid the jeers of politicians and the in- 
sults of the baser sort. The sermon was a comfort to 
this solitary voter, but brought him no helpers ; he 
continued to cast his one vote for years afterward. It 
was supposed that Garrison and his friends were trying 
to rend the churches, and to set up women as preach- 
ers. Besides, the chief industry in the mills was spin- 
ning cotton ; and, without slaves, how could there be 
any cotton '^. On that point all the leading men of the 
village were as dogmatic as the Chancellor of the Ex- 
chequer in expounding a budget. 

He was very earnest in his desire to raise the stand- 
ard of teaching, but he was a favoring influence rather 
than a moving force. During his time something was 
done to make the schoolhouses decent and comfortable, 
to increase the annual appropriation by the town, to ex- 
tend the school terms, and to secure better teachers 
by stricter preliminary examinations. 

On the subject of foreign missions the minister had 
a profound conviction. In his sermons and in his 
remarks at prayer-meetings, as well as in his pastoral 
calls, he represented the need of the perishing world, 
and extolled the courage and self-denying labors of the 
missionaries ; and he urged that concerted efforts 
should be made to increase contributions. A system- 
atic canvass was begun by the deacons and teachers 
of the Sunday-school. The rich were urged to give, 



ROBERT IV 263 

and did give liberally ; but all, without exception, gave 
something ; even boys were prevailed upon to open 
their tin boxes and part v/ith their few jingling cents. 
So thoroughly was the work prosecuted that in one year 
the collections amounted to more than three thousand 
dollars ; which was rather more than the annual cost of 
the public schools, and considerably more than the ex- 
penses of the parish, including the minister's salary. 
This was not a mere gathering of superfluous cash ; it 
came from actual self-denial of comforts, from the renun- 
ciation of books and amusements, as well as from the 
breaking up of petty hoards ; it represented endless sew- 
ing and knitting ; so that the total was not merely money, 
but a near and dear part of human lives. This result, 
which so much rejoiced the minister, and upon which he 
expatiated with just pride, was turned upon him and upon 
the leaders of the church in an unexpected manner. 

At the next town meeting, when the appropriation 
for schools was under consideration, the advocates of 
progress and reform urged the raising of a larger sum 
by taxation. They dwelt upon the condition of the 
children who were growing up with such meagre 
opportunities, and showed what might be done if the 
committee had the necessary funds. It was getting to 
be an old story, for the arguments had often been pre- 
sented in previous years. At. last one old farmer. 
Captain Newcomb, arose and " freed his mind." 

" Mr. Moderator, I dunno but wut all the gen'leman 
says is trew " (it was Mr. Grant who had last spoken), 
''though, fer myself, I don't see thet larnin' would 'a 
made my life any easier. I kin read the Bible an' a 
newspaper, an' I hain't time to read any more. All my 
itime's took up tu airn a livin', an' ter pay my taxes ; an', 



264 QUABBIN 

ef they was tcr be any higher, I couldn't pay 'em, 'thoiit 
scrmipin' my vittles an' clothes. I kin reckon the vally 
of a hog or a fat ox ; an' ef I heel larnin' to cal'late an 
eclipse I couldn't make the heft o' ary one on 'em a 
paound more. My boys '11 hev ter foller me, an' the 
larnin' thet's sarved me '11 hev tcr du fer them. So fer 
a blacksmith's son, or a shewmaker's ; they kin make 
hoss shews an' wimmin's shews, ef so be they're willin' 
ter du wut their fathers hev done, an' grow up stiddy 
workin'-men. Ef they want ter be lawyers an' doctors 
an' ministers, thet's another mahter ; an' it stands ter 
reason thet ther' ain't never room fer but one at a time 
fer 'em in a taown like this, in a gineration o' men. 
When a youngster wants ter git up a peg in the world, 
ther's alius a way, ef he's got the brains an' the grit ; 
an' I don't see the yeuse o' puttin' all the boys in the 
way o' gittin' up ter the same peg, ef they hain't the 
'bilities. The skule sh'd be fer the evrige, an' not fer 
one or tew. But even supposin' we was agreed ter hev 
the skules what the gen'lemen want, I sh'd like ter 
know ef ther' ain't some way ter du it 'thout piiin' up 
taxes .^ Some folks in this village, they tell me, make 
more money in runnin' a factory a day than I kin on 
my farm in a year. Taxes ain't nothin' ter them ; but 
they're heavy 'nough fer me naow. 

" I heered t'other day thet this perrish hed raised 
more'n three thaousan' dollars fer forrin missions. 
Three thaousan' dollars in a poor leetle taown, ter 
keep a set o' well-fed fellers in forrin parts, wher' the 
people don't want 'em, an' wher' they kin du plaguy 
leetle good. Thet's more money than all aour skules 
cost, 'cordin' ter the report jest read. Naow, Mr. Mod- 
erator, they say cherrity begins ter hum ; an' ef the sit- 



ROBERT IV 265 

tiwation of aour boys an' gals is so dreffle bad, an' ef 
we air, all on us, in danger o' becomin' heathens an' 
savages fer want o' better skules, it 'pears ter me thet a 
part o' thet air three thaousan' dollars better be spent 
here fust ; an' arterwards, ef ther's any left, it kin be 
gi'n ter the missionaries." 

The hit was felt, in spite of the low tone of the objec- 
tions to higher education. Many of the country people 
were in ecstasies, and even the most devout of church- 
members smiled. The only reply came from a deacon 
who said, "'These things ought ye to .have done, and 
not to have left the other undone.' " 

When the vote was taken, there was only a small 
increase in the appropriation. Progress was slow for 
many years, against the prevailing sentiment expressed 
in the first part of the farmer's speech. 

The large contribution was often referred to on other 
occasions. When an appeal was made for a poor widow, 
a sick family, or a man in misfortune, the answer would 
come, " Better take sunthin' from that air three 
thaousan' dollars ye've scraped up fer the heathen." 



266 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXVII 

DAWN 

A CASUAL observer would have noticed but few 
changes in the village from the time of Joshua I. to 
that of Robert IV. The new buildings were not many, 
and not in the least imposing ; although there was a 
more general air of neatness in houses, dooryards, and 
gardens, and there were more ornamental trees. Sev- 
eral disused mills and shops had disappeared, and, after 
their sites were levelled and turfed, the open spaces 
were more agreeable than shabby ruins. Business was 
visibly declining ; but this appeared to affect the in- 
comes of few, for the general style of living was even 
more comfortable, and all the appointments of house- 
holds were in better taste. 

In the country, more of the dwellings were painted 
and in good repair ; scarcely any were so cheerless as 
in the old time. On the few good farms barns were 
built from improved plans. The new barn was often a 
large structure, surmounted by a showy cupola, bearing 
a gilded vane in the form of an ox or horse. Imple- 
ments that used to be exposed to the weather were 
sheltered in convenient out-houses. The old strag- 
gling heaps of wood were cut and piled under cover, 
and yards were raked clear of chips and rubbish. 
These are prosy details, but they count in life as in 
landscape. 



DA IViV 267 

Among the people an almost insensible change was 
going on, owing in a great measure to their more tem- 
perate and cleanly habits. Few visages seen at the 
mill or the stores had the old fiery glowj hair had be- 
come docile ; hats were not prematurely beaten out of 
shape ; and the razor no longer skipped those edges 
and ridges of beard which told of bleary eyes and 
trembling hands. The majority of men were clear- 
eyed and clean-looking, and wore comfortable, well- 
mended clothing. Fewer barrels of cider were stored, 
and more apples sent to market. Oaths were rare, 
except among the dwindling frequenters of the tavern ; 
and one could count upon the fingers all the flagrant 
cases of habitual drunkenness. 

Yet the farmers were hardly so prosperous, for their 
produce brought lower prices. There was a market for 
firewood and railroad-ties, and other timber ; animals, 
poultry, and dairy products were in demand ; but as to 
grain, it was seen that with the extension of railroads 
its price must continue to fall. In raising bread- 
stuffs New England's day was coming to an end. So, 
throughout the town, young men arriving at maturity 
were looking abroad for their future, and in time few 
who were possessed of good abilities were left behind. 
Destiny had some surprises for the exiles or explorers ; 
for one, a place as fireman on a locomotive; for another, 
a quarter section of prairie land ; for a third, a desk in 
a merchant's office in Boston ; for a fourth, a seat in 
the Stock Exchange in New York. One handsome 
fellow,, moderately educated, and with no inheritance, 
was taken for a husband by a wealthy woman, and (lur- 
ried off to her ''brown-stone front " on Fifth Avenue. 

Women more than men are rooted to the soil, quasi 



268: QUABBIN 

adscriptcB glcbce, and, owing to the absence of partners, 
the number of the unmarried increased ; but in one 
way or another many of them found spouses, and there 
are few Northern or Western States where there are 
not daughters of Quabbin now at the head of families. 
Although now and then a young man became promi- 
nent or made a fortune, the influence of the young 
women was nobler and more pervasive ; for they hap- 
pened to possess a larger share of mind, culture, and 
worth. Nearly all who were highly educated married 
away from home, and some of them attained to posi- 
tions for which there are no titles, but for which the 
honors given to eminent men would be inadequate. In 
the case of a mother of half a dozen vigorous and well- 
trained children, who is foremost in religious work ; 
who sets luxury aside, and uses her wealth to do good ; 
who is the friend of the poor, and comes to be the one 
person looked up to, reverenced, and loved by a whole 
town, what rank or honor would be appropriate } Such 
a woman leaves a memory that is blessed, and God will 
take care of her reward. 

Gay young women, like Eliza and Lois Grant, when 
the new wine of youth had done fuming, became excel- 
lent and notable members of society. Nor was educa- 
tion confined to the rich. During and after the reign 
of Robert IV. it happened that a great many bright 
girls from humble families, after beginning with the 
transient "select schools," found means to attend some 
distant academy or boarding-school, with marvellous 
results. It was wonderful to see some budding girl, 
who a few years before was a freckled and wild-haired 
tomboy, come back with the calm eyes of conscious 
power, and with the equipment and manners to shine 



DAWN 269 

m a drawing-room. No leveller like education, for it 
levels upwards. 

The presence of cultivated young women, even for 
a few years each, began to tell upon the old dialect. 
Perhaps the characteristic tone was not so much ameli- 
orated, but it became rare to hear sentences framed on 
slovenly models, and rough with contractions. Some 
of these women became teachers, and were active prop- 
agandists ; some of them married, and succeeded in 
toning down the speech of their husbands and relatives. 
All were active agents in bringing about the coming 
enlightenment. 

As a result of the departure of the young, the peo- 
ple of Ouabbin might be likened to a forest which had 
parted with most of its lusty and growing trees, and 
consisted largely of old and wind-shaken trunks, with 
few branches and sparse foliage. Toward the end of 
the fourth minister's time the congregation on a Sun- 
day was noticeable for the numbers of gray heads. 
There were a few old couples, but more widowers and 
widows ; there were the local storekeepers and mechan- 
ics, the venerable lawyer, the few mill-owners, and 
others upon whom the frame of things seemed to rest. 
Besides, there were a few mill-hands, and other " hew- 
ers of wood and drawers of water," most of them re- 
cent immigrants ; but there were very few young men 
and women of the old stock. Those who still remained 
were either without ambition and courage, or those 
whom duty and affection retained at home to take care 
of the old. Now and then would be seen some native 
who had come home on a visit, and his appearance at 
meeting was the subject of much curiosity. But any 
one who had known the people could reckon the absent 



2/0 QUABB/.V 

of both sexes from the vacant spaces in so many pews-. 
A deeper melancholy, if that were possible, had settled 
upon many pinched and grizzled faces. 

This slow exodus began with the completion of the 
trunk railroad. It was no longer a difficult thing to 
traverse the State, or even to pay a visit to friends in 
Illinois. People were no longer rooted to natal soil, 
but moved about with a light-heartedness or indiffer- 
ence, strangely in contrast with old custom. In the 
time of the first minister very few in the village had 
ever travelled fifty miles, and a visit to Boston was the 
talk of a lifetime. There were Seldom any removals ; 
except of the very poor, who had nothing to carry ; — 
where a man was born, there his lot was cast, and there 
he toiled until his release came. In one respect this 
was a wholesome restraint ; honesty abides, while vil- 
lany if discovered is forced to fly. It was strange, too, 
to see, after this general movement began, how easily 
occupations were changed. Before, a youth followed 
in his father's footsteps ; and to become some day the 
owner of the farm, or head of the workshop, was the 
great prize in life ;*but when the door was suddenly 
opened into the great world, the farms and shops of 
Ouabbin, seen over the shoulder, looked mean. A 
youth when he set forth generally believed that For- 
tune was waiting for him in some guise, if he could 
only recognize her ; and until she was revealed to him 
he did not care to what labor he applied himself. For 
the time being he was willing to be teamster, porter, 
clerk, or "utility man." This readiness to adapt one's 
self to anything was a wholly new symptom ; and if it 
was attended by some instability or feverish impatience, 
it was not without crood results. The old fixedness 



DAWJV 271 

and torpor were gone, and society was full of motion, 
albeit motion was not always progress. 

There were two stations on the railroad, each about 
a dozen miles from Ouabbin, with which there was 
daily communication. The trade of the local stores 
was speedily reduced to odds and ends, because farmers 
drove with their produce to the stations and brought 
back their supplies, and because well-to-do people went 
by rail to the nearest large town for '' shopping." These 
frequent excursions served to break the monotony of 
life in a small village. Then daily newspapers began 
to appear in the stores and counting-rooms, and in a 
few residences, and the ideas of Boston and New York, 
the commercial, political, and literary centres, began to 
awaken a vivid and continuous interest. This was an 
epoch.' Quabbin became a part of the great world, 
and felt the universal pulsations of humanity. It could 
never be solitary again. Many influences contributed 
to its enlightenment, but the railroad and the daily 
newspaper were the chief. Home and foreign news, 
politics, inventions, and discoveries in arts and science, 
were brought home to people who had never had any- 
thing to occupy their minds except neighborhood gos- 
sip and sermons. The educational power and stimulus 
effected an entire transformation ; although at first 
many a reader spelled his way through paragraphs but 
dimly understood. The appreciation of newspapers 
rose with the spread of education ; but from the begin- 
ning there was some notion of the solidarity of man- 
kind, and of the inestimable value of knowledge. 

Other changes were in progress. Instead of heavy, 
rumbling wagons, there were light buggies moving with- 
out noise. Clumsy and rusty harnesses were exchanged 



2/2 QUABBIN 

for newer work, with finer lines and tasteful buckles. 
In former times a man whose clothes were made at 
home by the ancient tailoress, who went the rounds of 
the neighborhood, could be easily distinguished at a 
hundred yards' distance by his slouchy and baggy out- 
lines. Such a costume was naturally associated with 
huge, shapeless boots, an old hat with the crown stove 
in, the nasal drawl of the rustic dialect, and tobacco 
stains at the corners of the mouth. Such a repulsive 
outfit was becoming rare, especially in the village ; as 
all, excepting the very poor, were in the habit of going 
to some large town for their clothing. 

Especially marked was the change among women, 
who are always quicker than men to perceive the beauty 
and advantages of new things. Little by little what 
used to be stigmatized as '' city ways " began to come 
in without comment, — neater boots and gloves, tasteful 
scarfs, better *' form " in gait and attitude, a readier 
and smoother speech, and more composure of manner. 

Most important were the changes in tools and imple- 
ments. It would be difficult to exaggerate the relief 
that came to working-men, — and almost everybody 
worked in Ouabbin, — when the heavy and awkward 
hoes, shovels, axes, forks, rakes, and scythes were re- 
placed by new tools, so light, yet so strong, so polished 
and so perfectly adapted to use, such as are now seen 
in New England and in the West. They are found 
nowhere else ; those in Great Britain, where farming 
and gardening are carried to perfection, are generally 
twice as heavy, and not so effective. 

The same is true in regard to mechanics' tools. The 
Yankee makes and uses hammers, saws, files, pincers, 
screw-cutters, vices, tailors' shears, dental instruments. 



DAWN 273 

and the like, which are fashioned with a precision 
seldom attained elsewhere. 

The children of Quabbin that were scattered abroad 
gave new light upon countless affairs by their letters 
and visits to the old people. Travellers came and went, 
and soon the hydrostatic paradox of Doctor Holmes 
was in some measure exemplified ; that is to say, with 
free outflow and inflow between the ocean and ever so 
small a receptacle, the level of the latter can in no wise 
be depressed. 

Events and the progress of ideas have been grouped 
under the reigns of successive ministers ; but it is evi- 
dent that in many instances the ministers, if not pas- 
sive spectators, were wholly incapable of initiating the 
changes that took place ; they might as well have the 
I credit of directing the weather. The good Robert IV. 
duly preached his earnest and faultless sermons, made 
his conscientious visits, and distributed all the sunshine 
compatible with his duty of warning sinners. He was 
as worthy of veneration as Goldsmith's village parson. 
Yet, had it rested solely with him, the people would 
have long remained in their provincial isolation. And, 
further, the time had passed when the intellectual char- 
acter, opinions, and will of the public could be controlled 
by any one man. In the days of Joshua I. there were 
not half a dozen in the town who could be said to have 
self-based 'character and reasoned opinions. When, in 
every quarter, men and v/omen v/ere reading for them- 
selves, there was a distribution of power. 



274 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 

Miss Wicks was an only daughter, who kept the 
house of her father, a widower. It was a pleasant old 
house, standing on the lot where, almost a hundred 
years before, the primitive hatters had lived. In the 
rear a garden with terraces extended down to the river. 
The broad slopes of the Russell farm and a part of the 
shoulder of Great Quabbin formed an attractive out- 
look from the rear windows. There were old-fashioned 
flowers in the beds below the house, such as roses, 
pinks, sweet-williams, peonies, balsams, geraniums, 
lilies, and violets ; and in front a horse-chestnut tree, 
a feathery larch, and a mountain-ash, with its clusters 
of pale coral, formed a checkered screen against the 
western sun. 

Miss Wicks had enjoyed all the advantages of educa- 
tion then obtainable ; and, though far from beautiful, 
she was attractive on account of her delicacy of feeling, 
courtesy, and tact. No one who came to know her ever 
thought her plain. Upon a memorable evening she had 
invited the Grant sisters and two gentlemen to tea. 
Her father did not join the party until late. 

One of the guests was the new doctor, Fletcher by 
name, who was a bit of a dandy, and conspicuous for 
wearing patent-leather straps to hold down his strained 



MISS IVICKS'S TEA-PARTY 275 

pantaloons. The other was David Wentworth, a stu- 
dent who was absent from college on leave, engaged in 
teaching a select school. The fact that he was so 
employed was proof that he was not rich ; but he was 
neatly dressed, and his manners and speech showed 
him well born and well bred. The contrast between 
him and the doctor was marked. In the one case you 
were earnestly regarding the man, in the other you 
were more attracted by the clothes ; for, besides the 
innovation of trouser straps, the doctor was finical in 
regard to linen and ornaments. He had the air of 
a cultured man, but one who attached importance 
to externals, and who flattered himself upon his 
superiority. 

The small party was seated around a large table, for 
tea was not served in those days on dainty little stands 
with trays, and there were two vacant places. 

Miss Wicks was asking her guests to admire her old 
china. ''My father," she said, ''bought it in Boston 
the year after I was born." 

"Now, really," said the doctor, "you can't call that 
old china ! " 

"Old enough," said Miss Wicks, smiling. "Father 
drove with mother from here to Boston, and was two 
days on the road." 

"A delicate and beautiful piece of porcelain," said 
Wentworth, holding up a cup to the light. "Happy 
the man who will be served by it." 

The eyes of Eliza and Lois Grant exchanged a faintly 
perceptible gleam. 

" I thought," said the doctor, "you were going to tell 
me it was brought from China by the old gentleman 
opposite, — your relative, is he not t He looks as if he 



2/6 QUAE BIN 

might have been a mandarin of ever so many gold 
buttons." 

'' Our families have some slight relationship," said 
Miss Wicks, "but the set did not come from him. It 
is not rare, and I fancy it was made in France. — I was 
going to ask you, Mr. Wentworth, about your school. 
I have an interest in the young girls who are coming 
on. I remember what the schools were a few years 
ago, and I am glad to know that there are more advan- 
tages to-day." 

The doctor perceived that he was set aside, and began 
to give his attention to his neighbor, Lois Grant. They 
talked of agreeable nothings in a desultory way, but 
after a while both were drawn to listen to the school- 
master. 

"It is grateful to know," said Wentworth, "that you 
are interested, for there is need of sympathy. At 
present it is like lifting a dead weight without lever- 
age. My pupils learn their lessons, but they lack intel- 
ligence, or, I should say, they lack general knowledge. 
I happened the other day to make a reference to geol- 
ogy, and found they hadn't the least notion of it. For 
very shame I had to stop and make some explanations 
upon the structure of the earth's crust. That led to 
questions upon the time that must have been taken to 
harden the successive formations ; and, after a few 
seconds of mental calculation, I was asked if, accord- 
ing to the Bible, the creation of the world was not just 
four thousand and four years before Christ } I sug- 
gested that it wasn't necessary to hold strictly to bibli- 
cal chronology, for that was only a deduction from 
uncertain data, and the work of fallible men ; while the 
testimony of the rocks was evidence which could not be 
contradicted." 



MISS WICKS' S TEA-PARTY 277 



The doctor gave an approving nod to the inquiring 
glances of his neighbors, but Miss Wicks looked 
troubled. She said she had heard a sermon by Pro- 
fessor Hitchcock, the great geologist, and thought he 
showed there was no conflict between Genesis and 
geology. 

"On that subject," said Wentworth, ''I say nothing. 
For the sake of the book, I hope it is so ; science will 
take care of itself. I was giving that merely as an 
illustration of the want of knowledge. In literature 
the condition is worse. I was speaking to the class 
about Shakespeare, and, to my surprise, saw no 
responsive light in their faces. On inquiry, I found 
that not one had ever read a play or poem of his. I 
said something to show them his place among the 
world's great poets, and then a girl asked if Shake- 
speare did not write for the theatre } if the theatre was 
not immoral, and if it was Christian to read his plays '^. 
The questions and the faces of the class showed there 
had been prevention from some quarter, and I changed 
the subject." 

'* We had selections at our school," said Miss Grant, 
'' but never plays entire." 

The doctor looked amused. 

*' Our Shakespeare was edited, and with notes for the 
use of schools," said Miss Wicks. 

"That 'editing' has been a sore subject," said 
Wentworth. " There has been sad work done in that 
way by male prudes. The main question is, if men 
and women can be called 'educated' who grow up in 
ignorance of the greatest poet of our race, — perhaps 
of any race. If my pupils were asked, I fear they 
would give that place to Dr. Watts." 



2/8 QUAE BIN 

" Doctor Watts ! " almost shouted the doctor. " That 
is good. Methinks I hear the laureate of bread-and- 
butter misses and short-jacket boys : — 

* Let dogs delight to bark and bite ; ' 

* How doth the little busy bee ; ' and, 

* Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber ! ' " 

It seemed almost sacrilegious to make fun of the ver- 
sifier of the Psalms, yet the young ladies smiled a little 
at the sally. 

*' It hurts my feelings," said Wentworth, " when I 
find an empty niche in a mind where Shakespeare's 
image should be ; but, for most people, ignorance of 
Scott is quite as much to be regretted. Not to have 
read the ' Antiquary,' or ' Quentin Durward ' ! Not to 
have devoured ' Ivanhoe ' ! Not to have loved Flora 
Maclvor ! I can hardly conceive it ! I hope. Miss 
Wicks, you were encouraged to read those charming 
books.'' " 

*' I have read most of them. My parents did not ap- 
prove of reading novels, but these were exceptional, 
for their history and their healthy tone. But I have 
no copies. I knew father would not like to have them 
on the shelves ; and I don't think there is a full set in 
town. What do you say, Eliza .^ " 

" I do not know of any. While at school we read 
several of the Waverley novels, not exactly by permis- 
sion, because the rules were against all novels, but our 
teacher made no serious objection to our reading a few 
of the most famous." 

"Well," said Wentworth, ''I don't sympathize with 
any man who renounces for himself, or deprives others 
of, the pleasure of reading Scott." 



MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 279 

"I wish I could read him a dozen times," said the 
doctor; ''I am sure I should always feel the old thrill." 
"The dead past," continued Wentworth, " lives in 
his pages. It is history visible and real. But do you 
think, Miss Wicks, that your minister objects to the 
Waverley novels } " 

" I really don't know. I am afraid he does ; not so 
much for anything in them, you know, but because 
they absorb the mind, and draw it away from serious 
things." 

She was beginning to look solemn. 
"Does he object to poetry as well.'*" 
" He dotes on poetry," said Lois Grant. "He loves 
Virgil and Milton, and Gray and Wordsworth, and a 
great many more." 

" And I heard him read a piece by Mr. Bryant, a re- 
1 cent poet," said Eliza Grant. " I can't think of the 
j title, but it was about death, and as beautiful as slow 
;| music." 

j " 'Thanatopsis, ' " suggested Miss Wicks. 
j "That view of death is a fine poem for a youth of 
nineteen to have written," said Wentworth. — " You 
have heard of Edgar Poe t " 
I The ladies all shook their heads. He continued, "I 
think Poe may go far. He has produced few poems, 
but they have the stamp of genius, — classic from their 
birth." 

" You seem to lay great stress on novels and poetry," 
said Miss Wicks. 

" Yes ; on noble fiction like Scott's, and on poetry 
of a high order. I wish to bring them near. I don't 
want scholars to think of the classic authors as so 
many statues set up in a gallery apart, but as real men. 



28o QUAE BIN 

of whom the latest are living to-day ; and that any of 
these may be put on pedestals in due time. It is a 
long stretch from Homer to the poet of your county 
newspaper, but it is not impossible. But I am preach- 
ing. Let me only add that I hope my scholars may be 
led to the affectionate study of works of genius, as well 
as to matters of every-day use." 

There was a rap at the door, and a moment later the 
minister appeared, and was duly welcomed. It was 
evident that he was not wholly unexpected. Address- 
ing Miss Wicks, he said, — 

** My wife has gone out on a visit ; and, though I am 
tardy, I concluded to avail myself of your invitation. 
I am very fond of a cup of your fragrant tea." 

When the usual small talk was ended. Miss Wicks 
said to the minister, very simply, " We have been talk- 
ing of fiction and poetry, such as the Waverley novels 
and Shakespeare's plays ; we should all like to know 
what you think of them t " 

The minister's face was a study. He paused and 
looked at all the guests in turn. There was a visible 
struggle, as if taste and principle were at odds. 

" If I were to speak of merits alone, as an abstract 
question," said he, " I should have to frankly commend 
them. I have read the Waverley novels, most of them, 
and Scott's romantic poems, and I have felt their charm. 
And I read Shakespeare while in college, not only with 
delight but with wonder and awe. And I admit in 
advance that his occasional grossness may be pardoned 
on account of the customs of his age. But I am a 
Christian minister, with souls in charge, for whom I 
must give account ; and I should not think myself 
justified if I were to favor the reading of romances or 



MISS nVCKS'S TEA-PARTY 28 1 

poems, when my people have so little time for reading, 
and when there is so much to be done for their eternal 
[welfare. Consider, sir," he said, addressing Wentworth 
after a moment's pause, " for you are a scholar ; consider 
in what light St. Paul regarded this matter. He could 
have read, and probably had read, Homer, yEschylus, 
'Euripides, and Sophocles ; and he may have known 
enough Latin to have read Virgil. Do you think he 
counselled his converts and followers to read CEdipus, 
Prometheus, or the ^neid .'* He turned his back on 
that noble literature, and said 'for I determined not to 
know anything among you except Jesus Christ and him 
crucified.' " 

" If you put it on the ground of there being no time," 
replied Wentworth, *' I would ask if school-children 
have not a reasonable expectation of many years "i If 
y^ou should carry your principle to its logical conclusion, 
^^ou would have them spend all their lives in prayer. 
Don't you think, sir, God intended that men, besides 
idoring and serving him, should rejoice in this beauti- 
:ul world, and occupy themselves with literature and 
science, and with cultivating a taste for the fine arts.? 
A.n all-round man ; one who is learned, accomplished, 
ind cheerful, besides being pious and good ; is he not 
IS pleasing in his sight as a filthy hermit crouching in 
1 cave, or set on a pillar in the Thebaid } or as an 
gnorant fanatic at a camp-meeting.? I don't mean to 
3e disrespectful. If God is the Founder of the sciences, 
:he Author of beauty and proportion, the Inspirer of 
genius, the Fashioner of our faculties, how could he 
vish us to check philosophic inquiry, to repress the 
:reative instinct, or to dry up the sources of feeling t 
Sven laughter is as natural as crying, and a great deal 
nore wholesome." 



282 QUABBIN 

"Your propositions have a broad reach," said the 
minister, *'and I should not like to assent to them with- 
out consideration. I will say, however, that those who 
realize their true condition in a dying world, exposed 
to the wrath of God, will seldom be moved to laughter." 

The phrases grated harshly in Wentworth's ears, 
but he shrank from touching the question of eternal 
punishment, and was glad to return to St. Paul. 

"I think," said he, ''there was another obvious reason 
why Paul did not give more attention to Greek poetry: 
it was based on the belief in the fabled divinities. 
What to us are Apollo, Mars, Diana, and Venus } 
Merely brilliant fictions, poetical conceptions ; but as 
gods or idols they are non-existent. What prevents 
you and me from looking at an image of Hermes, like 
that of John of Bologna, with admiration for the artist, 
and with a clear conscience } In Paul's time it would 
have been an idolatrous symbol. He would be careful 
not to give countenance to a superstition which had 
overrun the world, and which was dying so hard." 

"Our ancestors," said the minister, ''had some scru- 
p>es about the Greek and Latin classics, on account of 
their serving to keep alive a familiarity with false 
gods." 

"I am aware of that," said Wentworth. "It is to be 
seen in Cotton Mather and others of his time ; but 
when a man is afraid of being made an idolater by 
reading the fables of early ages, I should think him in 
a pitiable state of imbecility." 

"The divine command is still in force," said the 
minister. 

" True," replied Wentworth ; "but I would ask you if 
it is not to be interpreted in its spirit, and with regard 



MISS WICKS' S TEA-PARTY 283 

to the light of to-day? How can we conceive of the 
Ahiiighty as 'jealous' of an airy nothing, or of an 
irtistic image in marble ? We do not deify the forces 
bf nature, because we have found out the natural laws. 
We do not dread witches, as poor Cotton Mather did, 
:or we know that occult practices are impossible and 
ridiculous. Science has swept the earth, sea, and sky 
clear of divinities and demons, leaving only the uni- 
verse of matter, and God, its Creator. But we are not 
considering the question put by Miss Wicks. I was 
telling her I felt oppressed and hindered by the want 
of knowledge on the part of my pupils of the com- 
mon facts of science, and of general ideas of literature. 
To know the 'three Rs ' may enable people to live, but 
it is not enough to make them men and women. Don't 
you think there is need here for a library 1 for more 
reading, and on broader lines .''" 

"Yes, and for the grace of God," added the min- 
ister. 

j " But does his grace," asked Wentworth, " dwell by 
preference with ignorance and insensibility } It has 
been said that the church has not looked kindly upon 
any literature except its own, nor upon science not 
under its guidance. It seems to me the time has come 
when neither literature nor science can be fettered. It 
must be free for masters to teach what is known of the 
earth, of the people that have lived upon it, and of their 
ideas and works." 

''Religion," said the minister, "is not hostile to 
science when taught by reverent men ; nor to litera- 
ture, with due regard to other necessary instruction, 
and to the preparation for the world to come." 

"If a man should discover new laws of light," said 



284 QUABBIN 

Doctor Fletcher, "or a way of utilizing the force of 
electricity, would you think his discovery less valuable 
because he happened to be an unbeliever ? " 

*' No," said the minister; "but suppose he were an 
atheist trying to show that the universe has no need of 
God ? " 

" Like Laplace with his ' La Mecanique Celeste,' " 
suggested Eliza Grant. 

"That would not be a question in physics, but meta- 
physics," said Wentworth. " Li geology, for instance, 
there is no question either of theism or atheism. The 
geologist simply says that things are found so, and in 
such an order. It seems to me there is no science 
which may not, and should not, be taught with perfect 
reverence." 

Here Mr. Wicks came in, apparently tired and pre- 
occupied, and the conversation ceased. To judge by 
countenances, the doctor and Lois Grant had sided 
with Wentworth, while Eliza and Miss Wicks inclined 
to the minister's way of thinking. 

Soon after leaving the table. Doctor Fletcher and 
Wentworth took their leave. The face of the latter 
was still glowing with excitement, and his good-by to 
Miss Wicks was noticeable for its mingling of ad- 
miration with respect. Again the sisters exchanged 
glances. 

The minister's experience was novel and not wholly 
pleasant. It was the first time that any one in the vil- 
lage, in which his supremacy was unquestioned, had 
"withstood him to his face." But he contented him- 
self with observing that Mr. Wentworth was a most 
enthusiastic young man. 

"How I should like to have such a teacher," said 



MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 285 

Lois Grant. *'\Vhat a v/ay he has! Why, he fairly 
takes you up and carries you along with him." 

"No," said Eliza, half aside; "it was only Herman 
Field who could do that." 

Miss Wicks heard the reminder ; and, as she knew 
the old story of the sprained ankle, there was a mis- 
chievous laugh between her and Eliza. She said softly 
to Lois, — 

"You have 2i penchant for schoolmasters." 

The retort came in a twinkling, — 

" There is one, I am sure, who has a pencJiant for 
you." 

"I am afraid," said the minister, *'he is too much 
set upon learning. I do not say puffed up by it ; too 
much concerned with the things of this world. We 
have not talked of doctrine, but trifles are often signifi- 
cant. Did you observe that he said 'Paul,' and not 
' St. Paul ' .'' I should not be surprised to find that he 
is a Unitarian." 

Mr. Wicks was looking at his daughter earnestly. 

Lois Grant plucked up courage to ask, — 

" Did not the saint speak of himself simply as ' Paul, 
an apostle ' } I don't remember that any one is called 
'saint' in the New Testament, except in the captions, 
and I suppose those may be modern." 

"It is a matter of long usage in the church," said the 
minister, "and is not important except as an indication. 
Ah ! " he continued, as he crossed his legs and tossed 
one foot, in a fit of abstraction, " these high-mettled 
jouths ! They mistake their exuberant spirits for a 
divine afflatus ; their ecstasies upon the beauties of 
nature for worship ; their instinctive sympathy for 
Christian benevolence, and the vague yearnings of an 



286 QUABBIN 

imaginative soul for communion with God. All things 
in earth are beautiful to them, when we know that sin 
and death have entered into the world ; that there is no 
one good, not one, and that the heart is deceitful above 
all things, and desperately wicked. Of all the insidious 
forms of infidelity, none has wrought more evil than 
this new worship of nature, — as if it were anything more 
than the garment of a sinful world, soon to be destroyed 
by fire, — unless it be the twin delusion of glorifying 
human nature, which is corruption." After a pause he 
went on, — 

" The plausible phrases of the modern enemies of 
Christ have seduced many. It is the latest invention 
of the great enemy of souls. And to think that the 
college founded by our pious forefathers for the pur- 
pose of training up laboiers for the Lord's vineyard, 
the college whose motto was Christo et Ecclesia, should 
have fallen into the hands of those who dethrone Christ 
and undermine the foundations of his church ! Ah, my 
dear young friends," he continued, looking solemnly at 
their attentive faces, "■ better to have the heart right 
toward God, than to shine in -intellect, or to glow with 
an unchastened enthusiasm. If I were to advise a 
young lady upon her choice of a partner for life, I 
would say that a farmer or blacksmith who fears God 
is more worthy of love and honor than the most brilliant 
of the graduates of a Christless college." 

'Mr. Wicks's looks seemed to his daughter to say, 
"Did I not tell you so?" 



A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 28/ 



CHAPTER XXIX 

A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 

One Saturday afternoon David Wentworth set out 
for a walk, intending to climb the eastern hill and de- 
scend into the valley beyond. He passed the semi- 
circle of the cove, starred with lilies ; crossed the thin 
fallow lands that were cultivated only once in two or 
three years ; then ascended the hillside pasture, bristling 
here and there with patches of sturdy huckleberry 
bushes, and soon gained the ridge. There were chop- 
pers at work felling tall trees ; and, as he saw one that 
appeared to be ready to fall, he waited. Blow after 
blow was struck into the heart of the trunk, while the 
chopper cast frequent glances at the quivering upper 
bouo-hs. Soon he stepped aside, for there was a deeper 
thrill. Then came a wavering motion, an awful lean- 
ing, a breathless interval, a gathering rush, and a thun- 
dering downfall upon the leafy ground, while the 
rebounding branches and twigs were violently agitated, 
like the limbs of a giant in the last agony. To Went- 
worth the sensation was like seeing the fall of an ox 
under the blow of a butcher. But the chopper did not 
appear to be one who would be touched by sentiment, 
and the schoolmaster merely bowed and walked on. 
Along his path were piles of corded wood, heaps of 
chopped twigs, and the tracks made by the logs as they 



288 QUABBIN 

were hauled away. The clearing was thorough, and 
the hill was soon to have a bald head. 

In the road below was a farmer taking the dimensions 
of a number of logs with a rule. Wentworth thought 
his face engaging, in spite of the stern lines at the 
corners of his mouth. Salutes were always exchanged 
in Ouabbin, and it was considered courteous to say a 
friendly word in passing. Wentworth asked, — 

"Is it your woodland that I have just crossed — up 
there where they are cutting down trees .'* " 

" I s'pose 'tis," said the farmer. *' Be yeou f'm 
Quabbin } " 

"Yes; I am teaching school there." 

"Yeou be, be yer .^ Haow come ye ter climb the 
hill } Didn't ye know ye could git raound at ary eend 
on't.?" 

" I like to climb a hill ; I need exercise. But I don't 
much like to see a fine big tree cut down." 

" Nor I nuther." 

"Why do you have them cut?" 

" Got ter live somehaow. Raisin' grain don't pay. 
*Less we sold milk, or killed a critter naow an' then, we 
sh'd starve. Ye see, when we country folks run be- 
hindhan', we hain't no chahnce to make it up by spec'- 
lation. Ef we try spec'lation, we air sure ter git took 
in. Ther' ain't nothin' for us but hard work an' elbow 
grease. Some years ago we had a leetle flurry here, 
an' every man an' boy thought he was goin' ter be rich 
by raisin' Morns multicaulis. I don't know many 
larned names, but we all come ter know tJict. Haow 
the d'lusion got started I never 'xackly knew. 'Twa'n't 
reason nor common-sense; for mulberry-trees ain't 
good for nothin', 'ceptin' to raise silkwums ; an' every- 



A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 289 

body orter know this ain't the climate to raise 'em. 
People said somebody way off was goin' to want the 
trees — jest ez though they couldn't be raised better 
where they was wanted. But the fever was up. Folks 
paid fifty cents a-piece for trees not so big ez yer leetle 
finger, and not more'n so high. They used these to 
make cuttin's of, and put 'em to sprout under glass. 
Some used ol' cowcum'er frames, and some built hot- 
haouses, an' kep' the steam up days an' nights an' Sun- 
days. Some o' the fust ones made, 'cause they sold 
trees an' cuttin's tu others thet was startin' in. But 
by an' by the thing fell ez flat ez a cold slap-jack. 
Yer couldn't give away a tree. Some was bit pooty 
bad. Even sech a smart man ez Wicks. Ef yer 
want ter make him mad, y've on'y to say, 'Morns viul- 
1 1 can lis.' " 

"The experience was salutary, though painful," said 
Wentworth. '' But you won't have any more oaks to 
cut." ' 

*' Trew 'nough. Them air's ben growin' sence afore 
my father's time ; when they're gone, we sh'll hev to 
du sunthin' else." 

'' People used to live without cutting off their trees." 
"Thet's so ; but folks didn't use ter treat their crops 
an' airnin's like a cowcumber, — eat out the middle and 
fling away both eends." 

" I thought the people about here were economical." 

*' So they be — some on 'em ; an' some is runnin' to 

new funnitoor an' carpets. The man who must hev 

new carpets to walk on when he's ter hum won't stan' 

on his own graass ou' doors but a leetle while." 

"What has made the change in the value of crops } " 
" Railroads, an' one thing 'n nuther. I kin buy a 



290 QUABBIN 

bushel o' corn fer fifty cents that I couldn't raise fer 
less 'n seventy-five." 

'' I suppose I am talking to Captain Newcomb ? " 

"Jes' so; an' yeou air" — 

*' Went worth is my name." 

** Oh, yis. I heerd somebody tell 'baout haow yeou 
gin it tu the minister t'other day." 

*'We had some talk about books and reading, — all 
in a friendly way." 

"They say yeou gin it to him, all the same." 

''And are you not the man who objected to giving 
so much to the missionaries abroad, while there was 
money needed for schools at home } " 

" I s'pose I be. I ain't ashamed on't. But I hear 
the minister says yeou air a Unitarian." 

" He is welcome to say it. I have never talked about 
doctrines, and I don't belong to any church." 

" Air yeou f 'm Harvard College, daown ther' nex' tu 
Boston.?" 

" No ; but I should like to be able to graduate there," 

"What sh'd make the minister say yeou was a 
Unitarian } " 

" Unitarians are liberal, and he probably thought I 
was not strict enough in regard to the books that 
should be read." 

"Weren't ther' nothin' said 'baout the Trinity ner 
futur' punishment } " 

"Nothing." 

" I'm kinder sorry. I was in hopes ter hear 'baout 
it. I don't take no stock in the lake o' fire an brimstun 
myself." 

"I don't think such discussions do any good. I don't 
believe in any punishment that is endless, for that 



A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 29 1 

seems to me against the justice of God; but I never 
argue upon the subject. My notion is to make the 
b^jst use of life, to get all the knowledge possible, to 
love God, be cheerful, and do all the good I can." 

" A man who doos that, he's in heaven a'ready." 

"So I think." 

"Air yeou a-goin' ter preach } " 

" Not that I know of. I haven't decided what I 
shall do." 

" 'Pears like yeou orter. Yeour talk is saound sense. 
Folks is tired o' doctrine, like bein' tired o' smoked 
an' pickled meat, an' want sunthin' fresh, like dewty 
an' sunshine. We've bed an awfie lot o' doctrine fust an' 
last ; an' sometimes the more doctrine the more deviltry. 
What I mean is, the more doctrine was preached, the 
more the wicked pulled , t'other way, like contr'y 
steers. I've often thought them critters might a' ben 
got hold on by the right man, — the man tnet'd take 
'em right." 

" You never have any but orthodox preaching here I 
understand." 

"No, 'less it's Methodist ; an' thet don't 'maount ter 
much. Ther' ain't but 'baout a dozen on 'em ; an' jes' 
as soon's they git a leetle 'quainted 'ith their minister, 
off he goes. I dunno ez ary Unitarian or Universaller 
ever preached in Ouabbin. We hear on 'em raound 
abaout, like fer-off thunder in a summer arternoon, but 
they never come a-nigh." 

" I think, as time goes on, preaching will be more 
practical. Religion is a matter of life and character. 
Christ never talked theology, and if you could have 
asked his disciples, it isn't likely that any two of them 
would have agreed upon a system^ for they probably had 



292 QUABBIN 

none ; but they all knew what Christ wanted them to 
do and be." 

*' Wal, young man, yeou're the man ter du it. Yeou 
sh'd take up preachin'. Folks is tired o' 'lection an' all 
thet ; many hain't the head to un'erstan' it. But ef 
they kin see thet they're in etarnity right naozu, an' 
that naozu s the time ter du good an' be good, they 
won't wanter go a-mournin' all their days, so's to make 
ready for the joyful herearter," 

" But in spite of doctrinal preaching, or, perhaps, on 
account of it, you think the place has been improving.^ " 

'* Land sakes, yis. Ye hain't no idee what a state 
o' things ther' was when I was a boy. Ther' was some 
stiddy men an' good men, but ther' was an awfle lot o' 
drunken, fightin', swearin' fellers, thet made the village 
hot a'most every time they come into 't. They was 
alius raisin' Cain, cuttin' off boss's tails, an' pizenin' 
honest dogs. Oh, things is quieted daown. Ther's less 
h'ash talk, more schoolin', comf'tablerhaousen, an' nicer- 
lookin' women an' childern. Folks go an' come, sence 
the railroad, an' they bring new idees. Ouabbin's 
a leetle taown, an' alius will be; but ther' ain't no 
place so lonely's in the ol' times." 

The conversation went on with increased animation, 
and the two men, strangers until that day, were becom- 
ing friends. Wentworth was always pleased to talk 
with a straightforward and natural man. They were 
leaning against the fence, and the farmer was showing 
him how he calculated the contents of a log. 

There was a sound of wheels in the- sandy road, and 
Wentworth, looking up, saw a light wagon coming, in 
which were Miss Wicks and the Grant sisters. They 
were evidently taking a drive around the hill. He 



k 



A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 293 

raised his hat and bowed, and was civilly greeted in 
return. When they had passed, Captain Newcomb 
said, — 

"A gal o' good sense, thet Miss Wicks is. She ain't 
no gre't beauty, but she looks good 'nough tu eat. 
She won't hev no gre't fortin', sech ez the Grant gals 
'11 git some day, but it's my 'pinion she hain't her ekal 
in taown." 

"You think well of the Misses Grant also, do you 
not .? " 

*' Oh, yis ; they're smart an' well-eddicated, an' though 
folks say they air high-flyers, I don't think ther's any- 
thin' ^rt^/abaout 'em. They've got larnin' an' hev seen 
life, an' air goin' to hev money 'nough ter du what 
they wanter ; so I don't wonder they caper over Ouab- 
bin ez though 'twa'n't o' much 'caount. The youngest 
hed a love-scrape a year or two ago 'ith a schoolmaster ; 
but I guess she's got over it, an' none the wuss. But 
the Wicks gal's the one for viy money." 

'' Miss Wicks appears to be all you say." 

"Yis ; but her father's curus. He jest turns raound 
the minister like the moon raqund the airth. Ef the 
minister says, 'It's fair weather,' why, 'tis fair; ef he 
says, 'Go back an* git an umberell,' why, he goes back. 
Ez long's the minister stays here, an' Mr. Wicks lives, 
no feller need think he kin git that girl 'thout hevin' 
the minister on his side." 

" From the number of ancient spinsters, there does 
not seem to be much marrying here." 

" No ; we've lost aour young people, an' keep a-losin' 
'em. This region hez gin' its life-blood ter the West- 
ern country; fust ter York State, then ter 'Hio, Indi- 
anny, Michigan, an' so on. 'Stonishin', when I think 



294 QUABBIN 

on't, haow they've gone. Eenamost every haouse hez 
lost its sons or darters, or both. No, ther's leetle 
merryin' naow, 'cep' naow an' then when some ol' 
gran'ther merries a widclcr in caps an' false hair. But 
thet ain't mcrryiii ! It's on'y a trick to save usin' a 
brass warmin'-pan. Sech weddin's ez them on'y make 
me feel lonesome. I couldn't go to one on 'em ; 'twould 
grip me by the throat. I'd ruther go tu a fun'rul, an' 
done 'ith it, ef so I could nomernate the corpse." 

Two chance seeds had been planted in Wentworth's 
mind, whose development might determine his future ; 
one, that it was, perhaps, his duty to preach the gospel ; 
the other, that Miss Wicks was worth consideration. 

'*Du yeou ever go a-fishin' t " asked the farmer. 

"Seldom," said Wentworth. "I walk about the 
country whenever I can : it refreshes me, soul and 
body ; but fishing seems to me a rather indolent amuse- 
ment ; and then, I never have any luck, which is the 
same as to say I have no skill." 

*' I don't fish much, nuther, but I like sometimes to 
go to a quiet, shady place 'long with some sensible 
feller. While yeou air fiingin' a line yeou don't talk 
much; only a word naow an' then, — jest the notion 
of the minnit, — sunthin' like a float that bobs on 
the water when an idee comes along ; an' the pond, an' 
the trees, an' bushes say the rest on't. Naow ther's 
a pond not more'n a mile f'm here, an' not fer f'm the 
road ; an' when yeou air on the bank yeou can't see a 
haouse nor a sign of a livin' creetur'. Yeou'd think 
yeou was ten miles in the woods ; jest trees an' sky, 
an' a poorty leetle pond, raound ez a bowl, so still, an' 
a'most mournful-like, ef it wa'n't fer the water-lilies." 

*' You make me wish to see the pond," said the 



A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 295 

schoolmaster ; " and I like your notion of nature's 
filling in the gaps in a conversation. Yes, I should 
like to go with you some good day." 

" Take the fust lowery day, when it ain't actilly 
rainin.' I've poles an' lines, an' yeou might bring 'long 
a couple of new hooks. Some leetle shaver in the 
village will git us the shiners" (minnows). '* We 
mayn't ketch pickerel, but we'll hev the fun of tryin'." 

'' The good people of Ouabbin will think us a couple 
of boys." 

'' I alius expect to be a boy myself. An' ther's no 
man that is a man, who can't be a boy sometimes." 



r 



296 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXX 

AN ARRIVAL 

The morning stage-coach from the " Deepo " (the 
nearest railroad station), one day brought to the village 
hotel (styled " tavern " no longer) a passenger, whose 
appearance and **kit" excited some curiosity. There 
were straggling groups of people near the hotel veranda 
and about the post-office, who, besides diligently chew- 
ing tobacco, had the responsible duty of inspecting the 
daily arrivals, and, in consequence, felt themselves 
relieved from other work. 

The stranger was of medium height, and wore a soft, 
gray, broad-brimmed hat, a brown velvet "cut-away" 
coat, conspicuous white wristbands, a wide linen collar 
turned down over a poppy-colored silk necktie, and a 
full, dark, wavy beard, showing gleams of red in the sun. 
He had been seated beside the driver, and stepped 
down lightly, as one to whom an alert movement was 
habitual. His features were pleasing, and the expres- 
sion of good-humor in his brilliant gray eyes, together 
with the smile that at times lifted his ruddy mustaches 
and disclosed his white teeth, arrested general atten- 
tion. This person was a problem for the inspectors on 
duty, both at the post-office and the hotel. 

"Tell ye what, Hi," said a lank fellow in a palm-leaf 
hat, whose dress consisted mainly of a shady woollen 



AJV ARRIVAL 297 

shirt, and a pair of loose trousers, hoisted almost to his 
armpits by leather " galluses," the ends being tucked 
into the faded red tops of a pair of mouldy looking 
boots, '' tell ye what, thet's a curus chap. Jes' look at 
thet baird ! " 

'* Je-vvhillikins ! " exclaimed the second inspector, thus 
appealed to, — a sturdy fellow all in russet from his hair 
to his boots. *''Tis a baird, an' no mistake. Aiiit it 
nasty .'* I sh'd think I was some sort o' critter or other, 
ef I let hair grow all over my face an' mouth like thet 
air. I hain't seen nothin' like it, 'ceptin' ol' Lamson's, 
an' hisn was white. An', I say, Obed, jes' look at thet 
velvet jacket ! " 

" Yis," said Obed ; '' an' thet red neckhan'kercher. 
A pooty lively chap he must be." 

''What d'ye think he is?" said Hiram. "A circus- 
rider .? " 

" Wal, no ; I sh'd think he's more likely ter be a 
trillerkist " (ventriloquist), '' or sleight-o'-hand feller, or 
one o' them thet crawls inter a hot oven, and dror^ in 
arter him a piece o' beef to roast." 

"Anyhow, he's some sort o' showman. An', see 
ther' ! What's the driver handin' daown } Some sort 
o' wooden frame. Some o' his kit." 

'' An' look," said Obed, '' for the land's sakes ! at thet 
air white umbereller ! Big 'nough fer a Sunday-skule 
picnic on a rainy day." 

"An' jes' see," continued Hiram, "thet all-fired long 
handle tu it, 'ith an iron spike on the eend ! Wal, I 
vum, thet's the beatenest ! " 

" An' ther's his trunk, an' a carpet-bag, an' a m'hog- 
any box 'ith brass handles. Oh, he's some kind o' 
showman, fer sartin ! " 



298 QUABBIN 

The object of this attention disappeared within the 
hotel, and a few of the inspectors gathered to examine 
his "kit." The wooden frame was "a stumper" for 
them ; they could not make out the use of it. On the 
trunk were the initials L. A. S., and on the brass plate 
of the mahogany box was the name L. A. Stewart. 
The name was unfamiliar to the inspectors ; it be- 
longed to no '' trillcrkist " or other showman they had 
heard of. 

Soon from an upper window of the hotel was heard 
a voice calling in a marked New York accent, " Waiter ! 
waiter ! won't some one answer the bell } I want a 
pitcher of water, and to have my boots brushed." 

The last was an unheard-of request, and caused 
much unfavorable comment upon the veranda below : 
"Couldn't he bresh his own boots ? " — "Wonder who 
was his nigger ter hum .'^ " and other less compliment- 
ary remarks. Then the opinion began to take form 
that this " 'ristercrat who wanted so much waitin' on " 
was, maybe, " a lord, or some other kind o' furriner," 
and there was intense curiosity to know what had 
brought him to Quabbin. 

The excitement was somewhat calmed when the 
schoolmaster was seen approaching the hotel. David 
Wentworth, who had been sent for, came to call on his 
old friend and sometime classmate, Louis Stewart, and 
there was a joyous meeting. Stewart was a landscape 
painter, and had brought his easel and a box of colors, 
to do some sketching. His sister had been a friend of 
Miss Wicks, and of Eliza and Lois Grant at school, 
and had recently been visiting them. The two friends 
m.ade a brief call at both houses, and were warmly 
received. All the young ladies were impressed by the 



AN ARRIVAL 299 

painter's manners and presence. He had the air which 
should belong to the best society, and his conversation 
though lively was unobtrusive. He quite outshone 
Went worth on account of his knowledge of the world, 
and familiarity with men of distinction ; although, per- 
haps, in intellect and training, as well as in certain 
ideal traits of character, the schoolmaster was the 
superior. But Stewart's joyous nature, frank smile, 
and unfailing tact, w^ere irresistible. Wentworth had 
the manners of a student, and his habitual life was 
more interior, so that he was often silent when a man 
of the world would have seen and improved oppor- 
tunities. 

If Stewart felt an inclination toward any of the 
ladies, it was not shown ; but Wentworth was trans- 
parent as a sunbeam, and his devotion to Miss Wicks 
was always evident. It was clear that it was thought 
much to the credit of the schoolmaster that he had 
such a brilliant friend. There was much talk of scen- 
ery, and plans were formed to take the artist to favorite 
spots. Promising to return in the evening, the young 
men took leave. 

After the customary early dinner at the hotel, the 
two friends went up Great Quabbin, the schoolmaster 
being the guide. On the way, as they paused to look 
back, the painter's practised eye took in the calm 
impression of the valley with the village and river, 
the graceful curves of the cove, and the outlines of 
the so-called mountains. The autumn colors were just 
beginning to glow, and the landscape was as warm as a 
picture by Cuyp. At the top they roamed over the 
broad convexity, among the surprised cattle that ran 
and capered, and then stopped and snorted. Now they 



I 



300 QUABBIX 

were looking at the blue cloud which was Monadnock, 

— now at the black and strongly marked Holyoke 
range, and toward the dim cone of Sugar Loaf, and now 
to the sharp outline of a distant hill in Connecticut. 

'' A delightful spot," said Stewart. *' I could enjoy 
this air and this prospect for hours." 

*' I have always felt here a singular repose," said 
Wentworth, " a repose that is in effect a quiet exalta- 
tion, a pleasing loneliness, away from earthly affairs, 
and from black care." 

** If it were new to you, it would not seem reposeful. 
The breadth of view, — over a hi^ndred miles, I judge, 

— is glorious, uplifting. It is not the height of this 
hill, for it cannot be more than eight hundred feet, but 
its fortunate position which makes the grand outlook. 
Our eyes sweep over what seems like a vast plain on 
which young mountains have sprouted, and are just 
heaving up their round heads. No, this is not a place 
for repose. My thoughts rise from this plateau, hover 
over all those billowy ranges and deep-sunk valleys, and 
bathe in that mist of gold in the west. I could do 
anything here but paint. This scene could be repre- 
sented only in a panorama." 

They walked down the hill toward Crombie's bridge, 
and then sauntered along the river. 

'' Now, here I could paint," said Stewart ; '* here are 
several points of view, — that quaint old timber bridge, 
the glossy black water, which looks evil enough to have 
drowned many a thoughtless swimmer, the frayed cur- 
tain of willows and alders ; and then, looking the other 
way, that dense heap of tree-tops, and the white spire 
over them ; yes, I could make some pictures here." 

''A little farther down stream," said Wentworth, 



AN ARRIVAL 301 

"there is a place where the river has left its old bed 
and cut a new channel ; and there is a series of curv- 
ing embankments, one stretching out beyond the other, 
and always returning. Seen from below, they are like 
grass-grown fortifications ; from above they are simply 
rings of excavations. Nature is smoothing them over, 
but will not soon obliterate them. There are some 
rather fine trees too. We will see them some day." 

''The factories are ugly," said Stewart, looking to- 
ward the village, '' but the little river is pretty ; and the 
'lay of the land' is charming. In early times, when 
the region was wilder, it must have been beautiful." 

" I wish you would set up your easel somewhere in 
this meadow." 

" I will ; but first I want to look the ground over. 
Has any one sketched here.^ " 

" Not that I know of. It is an out-of-the-way place. 
And besides, artists generally look for more contrasts 
or strong effects." 

" I know that is the tendency ; but an artist ought to 
find use for all his power and skill in painting even the 
simplest scene. There isn't a spot I walk over when I 
am in the country, not a tree or bush, not a living 
creature, in which there is not something that appeals 
to me." 

" I am not an artist ; but an untaught man, perhaps, 
may have a similar feeling. I see men with heavy 
boots trampling upon bunches of green and gold moss, 
or on leaves whose veins and colors are beyond art, 
and with no more thought of the delicate things they 
are crushing than an ox. Leaves must be trodden on, 
but, apart from that, there is seldom any sense of the 
sacredness of God's work." 



302 QUABBIN 

*' People suppose that beauty is to be sought for in 
some far-away region, and under exceptional conditions ; 
when it is at their own doors, and wherever they go. 
If they really loved nature, this would not be so." 

"Love of nature does not seem to be common in the 
country, — not hereabouts. As for city people, I be- 
lieve it is mostly the novelty that appeals to them ; 
while the feeling is fresh they are exalted, but unless 
it has some root in the heart it soon withers." 

" The chatter of fashionable people about the loveli- 
ness of rural scenes never touches me," said the painter. 
" I prefer the frank brutality of a countryman, who, if 
he feels nothing, pretends nothing." 

" ' Frank brutality ' exactly expresses the state of 
things here," said Wentvvorth, " both as to nature and 
art. I have seen only one picture in Ouabbin that 
could be called artistic ; and that is the portrait of a 
retired China merchant, a man of evident distinction. 
It is well painted, and mellow as an autumn sunset. 
There isn't another picture in town, except one of an 
old doctor, that you would look at ten seconds. There 
are a few engravings, commonly heads of famous 
preachers or other public men. One that is often seen 
is a grim portrait of Caleb Strong, of Northampton, a 
former governor. Most frequently you will see in the 
parlor, among wrought * samplers ' and funereal urns, 
various-colored lithographs. Consider, if you can, what 
that means, — a coarse, ill-drawn picture of a general on 
a prancing horse, or of a girl with a kitten or puppy, 
or a mother with a child, or the like ; and then the 
color! — crude red and blue, put on thick, as children 
daub picture-books. You will see such atrocities in 
the houses of worthy people who ought to know better. 



AN ARRIVAL 303 

But there is a lower deep. Image venders have found 
their way to this Arcadia, or Boeotia, and have brought, 
not the pretty figurines, the httle Bacchuses, Venuses, 
and Mercuries, — those would be improper, and perhaps 
idolatrous, — but plaster vases of plaster fruits, rudely 
colored ; a vivid green apple, a yellow and red peach, 
and a bunch of purple grapes, stuck in a heap upon the 
ghastly white plaster. It makes one feel ill to think 
of it." 

'' And yet," said the painter, "while I sympathize in 
your distress, all this shows the existence of a longing 
for beauty, — in color, at least, — and a groping toward 
the light ; just as the flower-pot at the sewing-girl's 
window, and the poppies and pinks by the laborer's 
door, show a yearning for something beyond the satis- 
faction of primary wants. There is a foothold for art 
everywhere." 

"■ Since people of taste generally agree about forms 
and colors," said Wentworth meditatively, '' I wonder 
if the arrangements and harmonies of nature are abso- 
lutely beautiful in themselves, or if they seem beautiful 
because we have become accustomed to them, and 
educated by them } The richness of color in those 
maples, with the ground of green grass, and with the 
blue sky and white clouds, seem to our eyes a per- 
fect whole ; but should we have thought the arrange- 
ment ugly or incomplete, if it had been otherwise 
predestined .'' " 

" I will answer you with a parable that I have long 
had in mind," said Stewart. "There was a race of 
beings that lived habitually in a dim lightj and found 
themselves well nurtured and content. The surface of 
their world was smooth, and of a uniform dark red. 



304 QUABBIJSr 

Slight vegetation was apparent, except in tracts where 
grew tall, silky bushes, very frail and easily swayed. 
Some of these bushes appeared as tall as trees, but all 
had the same slender stalks, as if they were mere fila- 
ments leaning on each other. The colors of this vege- 
tation ranged fron:j silver gray to turquoise and beryl. 
The combination of the universal red ground with the 
gray, green, and blue shrubbery, whether in the forests 
and jungles, or in the more open spaces, was very 
striking.' The inhabitants thought it perfect and pre- 
destined, and their philosophers taught that the exist- 
ence of a Creator was proven by the fact of this 
harmonious correspondence, which could not have come 
about by chance, and which, they said, was absolute, 
and founded in the nature of things. They could not 
conceive of any other colors. Their artists also praised 
the frail, swaying, silky shrubbery, and found in it a 
new proof of wise design. 

"Their world was pervaded by a peculiar odor, not 
wholly unpleasant ; it was in themselves, the soil, pro- 
ductions, and atmosphere. They professed they could 
not imagine a world without this odor ; and this was 
another proof of goodness and wisdom. 

" Their world was of some extent, and few had trav- 
elled over it ; where they were born, there within narrow 
limits they lived and died. But the most adventur- 
ous had never found rocks or caverns, or streams of 
water. It was wonderfully uniform, and was made 
to be the home of millions, — the best of possible 
worlds for material uses, and for the divine sense of 
beauty. 

" Their happiness long continued under their dim 
light, with their fore-ordained harmonies of color, 



AJV ARRIVAL 305 

and with the odor which was a part of the system 
of things. 

" But one day there came a flash that lightened the 
whole globe, then an earthquake shock, and a cata- 
clysm. Trees and shrubs and clinging thousands were 
swept away in universal ruin. 

'' The grocer's boy had opened a wire gauze safe, 
and scraped a cheese." 

'' I see your drift," said Wentworth. " You think 
we have no faculty of independent judgment }'' 

" As much as a nursing child has to pronounce upon 
the flavor and bouquet of its mother's milk." 

'' Your parable is hard upon Paley." 

" That is merely incidental. I was thinking of the 
contrast between our assumption of absolute judgment 
and dur real helplessness. We are a part of the ar- 
rangement, and cannot get away, any more than we 
can jump from the globe into space. We talk of 
* creation,' and have never drawn an original line. The 
genius is the fortunate fellow who comes upon things, 
— finds them. Forests and caverns taught us archi- 
tecture ; frost-work, flowers, fruit, shells, and other 
natural objects, have suggested ornament ; and the 
earth and sky furnish our palette of colors. We com- 
bine pre-existing elements, and never conceive anything 
new. These thoughts, in some pedant's phrase, are 
obviositics ; and I bring them up only to show that our 
appreciation of form and color is something inevitable. 
Therefore anything which repels the eye of a sane, 
cultivated, observing man is certain to be wrong. If, 
by and by, chemistry should produce new tones of 
colors that sting the eye, — some trenchant red, or 
piercing blue, or remorseless green, — the vulgar might 



306 QUABBIN 

be attracted, but the wise would shun them. The 
color you do not find in nature is false in art." 

''Your statement," said Wcntworth, "may be con- 
sidered an artist's confession of faith, and it has sug- 
gested, perhaps vaguely, several analogies. In medicine, 
leading men are giving up the coarse and violent reme- 
dies called 'heroics,' and are relying more upon the 
curative power of nature. As air and water make 
climate, it is seen that slight and impalpable things are 
all powerful to build up or to undermine bodily health. 
In steering a boat the merest touch upon the tiller 
alters the course. In following nature man imitates 
the Eternal Wisdom, which never expends the least 
surplus of energy. And in theology there is a deep 
movement, a disposition to return to nature, a new 
faith in human possibilities. There is a growing dis- 
trust of metaphysical subtilties, and of religious systems 
laid out for demonstration, like theorems in geometry ; 
of attempts at the analysis of the first cause, and 
of the geography of the moral universe, or at settling 
the future of all human souls. As we have what we 
think are natural sentiments of justice, we ought not 
to accept as true a scheme of the moral government of 
the world which outrages those sentiments. This sen- 
timent of justice is the witness of God in our hearts, 
and it cannot be wrong or rash to trust it ; for nature 
must be one with God." 

Stewart looked at his friend with some curiosity, and 
saw by his earnest manner that there was something 
serious going on within. 

They had passed the village, and were on the curves 
near the cove. The western sun was touching the 
spire, making its vane a gleam, and kindling all the 



AN ARRIVAL 30/ 

maples to a blaze. The sheet of water above the dam 
showed fair reflections, and the hills were bright against 

the sky. 

"We had better return," said Wentworth. '* Late 
in the day it becomes chilly here." 

''Well," said Stewart, ''you can call for me after 
supper, and we will go to see the girls." 



3o8 QUABBIN 



CHAPTER XXXI 

AN EXCURSION 

The prospect from the Wilson place, on the western 
side of the Great Hill, was reputed to be the finest in 
the region. It was distant, and the road was hilly and 
rough, but all who visited it came back in raptures. 
David Wentworth had finished his school, and was on 
the point of returning to college ; but he gladly stayed 
on a few days to be with his friend Stewart. A party 
was made up for an excursion to the famous spot, con- 
sisting of Miss Wicks, the Grant sisters, the painter, 
and the schoolmaster, and a newly arrived theological 
student, James Stowe, who was Mr. Grant's guest. A 
light stage-coach with a pair of horses was procured, 
and a stable boy was engaged as driver. The vehicle 
was not luxurious, but was comfortable, and the leathern 
curtains were rolled up, to allow a view in all directions. 

It was a fine day in September, and though the sun 
was warm the air was cool and bracing. The forests 
were still mostly green, though showing here and there 
some brilliant spot of red or yeilow. The maples along 
the roadside were in their glory of mingled colors ; 
golden-rod flamed in the pastures, and deep red spikes 
of sumach were seen in the fence corners. Cattle were 
cropping the late grass in the meadows, while red 
pumpkins lay basking between the rows of Indian corn, 



L 



AN EXCURSION 309 

whose stiffening leaves gave a papery rustle as the light 
airs lifted them. Crows gathered in the oaks in search 
of acorns, and now and then swept down with harsh 
cries upon the cornfields. Blue jays were screaming in 
hazel bushes, and blackbirds were merry and busy. 

After passing the West Branch the ascent was steady 
for several miles, and the progress was slow. Farm 
succeeded farm, where men or boys were digging pota- 
toes, or cutting corn-stalks for fodder, and stopped to 
see the gay -looking party go by. Houses looked poorer, 
and yards less tidy, as they ascended. At the doors 
were rows of milk-pans in the sun, and under the win- 
dows were strings of sliced apples or of red peppers. 
There were no signs of squalor or suffering, but life 
was evidently between narrow lines, and little enlivened 
by gayety. 

When the back-bone of the hill was crossed, the 
coach stopped where the road began to descend, and 
the party got out to walk. The farm they were to 
visit was off the highway at the left, and the road lead- 
ing to it was not considered safe. Ho\vever, the coach 
followed slowly and joltingly, and reached the spot 
without an overturn. 

While walking toward the pasture, Stewart said to 
Wentworth apart, '' What sort of a fellow is this Stowe t 
He looks bilious and sullen. Divinity, I think you 
said. Is it a domestic parson, or a missionary for 
export 1 " 

'' I know scarcely anything of him," replied Went- 
worth. " I believe he is in the last year of his course, 
and is already licensed to preach. He seems to follow 
our friend Lois with his eyes." 

We will see to that," said Stewart in his gay and 



3IO QUABBIAT 

triumphant way. '' I don't want to lose a prize, — if it 
should be a prize ; and I think a man might easily get 
the better of that gloomy fellow." 

Wentworth fell back to talk with Miss Wicks ; 
Stewart succeeded in detaching Lois, — not without 
some skilful tactics, — and the discomfited divinity stu- 
dent followed with Eliza. When they reached the 
spot, all sat down to enjoy the prospect. The driver 
had hitched the horses to a fence, and followed on with 
the luncheon-basket, volunteering to point out the 
places in sight. 

'* Thet nighest taown ther' is Ah must (Amherst). 
Yeou kin see the colleges on the rise o' land, jest a 
leetle Saouth. Daown yander is Maount Holyoke ; 
yeou kin see the haouse on top on't. Jest across f'm 
ther' is Ol' Hadley, wher' the river makes an ox-bow. 
In among them woods is Northampton. Yeou kin see 
tew steeples. Furder on is the Berksher Hills. It's 
all kinder mixt they way, part woodsy an' part misty. 
Thet air hill up yander, all blue an' pupple, is Sugar 
Loaf. Ef 'twa'n't fer the mist you'd see a lot more 
taowns. It's fust-rate land all the way f'm Sunderland 
daown ter the p'int of Holyoke. Jest ez pooty's ever 
yeou see. Raise lots o' broomcorn. But to see it all 
ther's a better place by yander rock." 

Here the volunteer cicerone was thanked, and allowed 
to retire. 

"When we look across this beautiful basin," said 
Wentworth, "and consider the wide space that has been 
affected by the river in past ages, we try to think what 
a mighty flood it must have been, and what a time 
must have been required to cut its way between Tom 
and Holyoke, and spread out the alluvial soil." 



AN EXCURSION- 3 1 1 

** The aspect of to-day is what interests me," said 
Stewart. '' For a painter, the earth is like a belle, — 
its beauty is only skin-deep. And then, Wentworth, 
some of us may be tender-footed on the antiquity of 
the earth." And he smiled at Mr. Stowe. 

''Oh, no," said Stowe with solemnity; "religion 
accepts the facts of geology, but without admitting the 
necessity of such enormous periods of formation. God 
could have created the world in one condition or in 
another. He could have called it into being with all 
its strata just as they are." 

" God could have done many things he has not chosen 
to do," said Wentworth. '' Geology shows what he has 
done. And as to creation, let me ask you if in the 
Hebrew there is any notion of God's calling the world 
out of nothing "^ I don't know Hebrew ; but I have been 
told that in the passage, ' In the beginning,' etc., the 
word ' created ' signifies 'formed,' and that creation, as 
understood in theology, is the conception of a later 
age." 

" Don't answer him," said Stewart, laughing. "This 
picnic isn't going to be turned into a Scripture debating- 
society." Then calling the driver, he sent him to the 
house for a teakettle of boiling water. " And now, 
Wentworth," he continued, " you and Mr. Stowe can 
spread out the luncheon ; say, some stratifications of 
bread, with interstices of butter, and some bowlders in 
the shape of eggs. Divide that pie into six isosceles 
triangles with curved bases, and cut down that fruit- 
cake so as to exhibit the conglomerate elements, allow- 
ing sixty degrees of the circumference in each segment." 
Wentworth smiled at the timely rebuke. The bas- 
ket was opened, a cloth was spread on the grass, and, 



312 QUABBIN 

by the help of the young ladies, the luncheon was taste- 
fully laid out. The youth soon returned with the hot 
water, Miss Wicks infused some of her fragrant tea, and 
the party sat down to enjoy the repast. 

Then Stewart produced a small canvas and arranged 
for it a support with sticks, in order to make a rough 
sketch of the central part of the landscape. 

Mr. Stowe, who had been lingering near, endeavoring 
to engage Lois Grant in conversation, suggested that 
there would probably be a better view from the pro- 
jecting point on the hillside mentioned by the driver, 
which was a little distance farther ; but when she 
caught an expressive look from the painter, she sat 
down by his side, saying, '' We can come here again- for 
this view, but there will not be an artist with us, and I 
am curious to see how a sketch is made." 

The easy way in which she shook off the attentions 
of the divinity student, and devoted herself to the 
painter, was amusing to all but one person. If Stowe's 
self-love was touched by the repulse, he had too much 
pride to show it, and he began talking with Eliza as if 
nothing had happened. 

Said Wentworth to Miss Wicks, ''The young preacher 
would have preferred Rachel, but, if he cannot get her, 
he will take up with Leah. After all, they should be 
equally attractive ; they are both beautiful, and they 
will inherit alike." 

*' Do you think he has mercenary motives.'' " 

" Clergymen, as well as other people, marry rich 
wives when they can, and that he has come here with 
matrimonial intentions is clear enough." 

'*I suppose every minister needs a wife to help him 
in his work," said Miss Wicks. 



AjV EXCURSION' 313 

''And he would not find a rich father-in-law an 
obstacle," said Wentworth. 

" Does a painter like Mr. Stewart have a good posi- 
tion in society?" asked Miss Wicks with some hesi- 
tation. *' I mean a painter who lives by his work." 

'' Yes, the best, — among liberal-minded people. If 
a painter is successful, and a man of good character, 
there is nothing equivocal about his position, either in 
regard to income or social consideration." 

'* Isn't his dress just a little peculiar } " 

'' Perhaps so ; but artists are allowed to dress as 
they please ; while a financier or a lawyer who should 
permit himself to wear a velvet coat or red necktie 
would infallibly lose credit. I know a man of character 
and solid means, who was lately refused a discount at 
a Boston bank because he wore mustaches. The 
cashier bluntly told him the reason. In the world of 
business there is no tolerance for eccentricity ; while 
an artist is a 'chartered libertine,' — not in the evil 
sense, you know." 

After a little time Miss Wicks seated herself by 
Lois, near Stewart, and looked on at his rapid work. 
Mr. Stowe and Eliza Grant had gone on to the place 
for the vaunted prospect, and for Wentworth there was 
nothing to do but join the girls who were watching 
Stewart's progress. He was not consciously jealous ; 
but he felt his friend's social superiority, and he was 
looking intently upon Miss Wicks's face to catch any 
indication of her feeling. He saw that Stewart's fas- 
cinating manner had made an impression upon all, and 
that he might be, if he chose, a strong competitor, even 
with the gracious, sedate, or saintly Miss Wicks. The 
three adjectives floated over her image in his mind, and 



314 QUAE BIN 

he was not sure which of them belonged to her. But 
what likehhood was there that Stewart, who was in the 
height of favor in New York society, would think seri- 
ously of any country girl ? And if he did, would it not 
be the pretty and vivacious Lois ? But, probably, he 
was intent only upon the pleasure of the moment. 
And then Wentworth judged himself a jealous fool to 
have been seeking to intercept glances of intelligence, 
and to have made himself miserable upon supposition. 
Jealousy, as he reflected, was an irrational self-torture 
at best. And what right had he to be jealous.^ 
Though he adored Miss Wicks, she had not manifested 
anything beyond courtesy and good-will. And then 
the insurmountable obstacles, — his unfinished studies, 
his lack of position and fortune, his liberal opinions. 
*• Fool, fool ! " he said to himself, "better cram your 
impulses back into your heart, get through this day, 
keep out of temptation in future, and leave Ouabbin ! " 
Jhis wisdom, however, had only a short reign. 

Meanwhile, the sketch was becoming a vivid impres- 
sion, and the young ladies were full of admiration. 
Soon Mr. Stowe and Eliza Grant returned with a glow- 
ins: account of the view from the rock. Stewart cast 
a rapid glance at them, and mentally observed that 
there was something in their faces besides scenery. 
But Wentworth's regards were only for Miss Wicks ; 
and he said, '.' Since we have come so far, perhaps we 
ought to go there, and get the best view. Suppose 
we all go .^ " 

*' Thank you, no," said Stewart. " I must not waste 
a moment ; and I don't wish to confuse the impres- 
sions of views from different points. The rest of you 



AN EXCURSION 315 

Wentworth looked an earnest interrogation to Miss 
Wicks, who, after a little hesitation, said, '' Yes, I will 
go. Will you come too, Lois ? " Lois was evidently 
reluctant, and answered, — 

''Perhaps I may follow you later. I am much inter- 
ested in otir sketch." 

The pair started off, while Mr. Stowe and Eliza 
strolled about arm-in-arm, leaving the painter and Lois 
by themselves. 

If this young lady's thoughts could have been sue 
cessively photographed, the train would have appeared 
something like this : — 

*'A charming man ; original, and a little brusque, 
yet delicate and not egotistic. I don't read him clearly. 
His heart is not worn on his sleeve. Can he be en- 
gaged already t All engaged men ought to be labelled, 
just as other mortgages are recorded. How he works ! 
And he has not said one word that all the world might 
not hear. Yet his eyes asked me to sit down beside 
him. Perhaps he thinks he can throw his handker- 
chief, like a sultan. Or perhaps he isn't a marrying 
man ; artists are said to be queer ; and he talks about 
loving his art. To love a woman is more to the pur- 
pose. Now that Alma Wicks is away he might take 
the time to say something nice. Anyhow sJic can't 
have him alone. Eliza can have that dark-looking min- 
ister /^r all me. I wonder if the schoolmaster will pro- 
pose to Alma.'* I believe he is dying to; but she won't 
have him : her father wouldn't let her. I should be 
afraid to trust him ; he is too much like Herman P^ield ; 
too frank by half. I like this shrewd painter better. 
All the same, I wish Wentworth would sometime pro- 
pose to me. I might play with him, — just a little, — 



3i6 QUABBIN 

and then I should refuse him ; and my account with 
schoohnasters would be square. I wonder if Stewart 
is like some artists, — the least bit of a maiivais sujct, 
— what they call Bohemian? He is on the surface 
free and off-hand, but perhaps — However, as he 
doesn't paint nude figures, he has no need or excuse 
for a model. Couldn't allow tJiat on any account. 
Wentworth and Alma Wicks will be coming back soon, 
and that Stowe and Eliza may stumble in upon us at 
any moment. Really, isn't he going to take advantage 
of the interim, and say something pretty .? No, he 
won't. I have a great mind to leave him, and follow 
Wentworth and Alma. But that would be mean. Let 
the schoolmaster have his chance, and be put out of 
his misery. How that brush goes, and how the dis- 
tant hills start up on the canvas ! He doesn't dream 
what I am thinking of. Perhaps he doesn't care. How 
do the lines go t 

" * Alas, to seize the moment 

When heart inclines to heart, 
And press a suit with passion 
Is not a woman's part. 

If the man comes not to gather 

The roses where they stand, 
They fade among their foliage, 

They cannot seek his hand.' 

'''Tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true. I wish I had been 
born a man! No, for then — No, 'tis better as it is. 
I will queen it to the last. But it is sometimes hard to 
be passive when the active role might serve so well." 

And while she mused and raged, Stewart was brush- 
ing away, bringing out misty hilltops, clustered trees, 
points of spires, and gleaming streaks of river, but 



! 



AN EXCURSION 317 

without a tender word to the maid beside him. Did he 
think of her? Yes, vaguely ; but it was as of "some- 
thing that would keep." The thought was not im- 
portunate. 

"Your friend is an accomplished man," said Miss 
Wicks to Went worth, as they walked away. 

" Yes ; and he was greatly admired in college. He 
has a good mind aside from his artistic faculty, and 
would have shone in any profession ; but he was born 
a painter, and after a time he determined to give up 
everything for art." 

" There seems to be a distinct type of men in New 
York," said Miss Wicks. "They are easier and more 
agreeable in manner than most Bostonians. I have 
found Bostonians either meditative, or stiff, or self- 
conscious." 

" Something of the Puritan manner survives in 
them," said Wentworth. "They are proud of family 
and wealth, though not more so than New Yorkers, 
and they add something of British 'grandeur' and 
implacability. The New Yorker calmly rests on his 
superiority ; the Bostonian doesn't intend that any- 
body shall forget it." 

" I presume you may be right, but I have seen few 
young men from either city. You are not a Bostonian, 
I believe .? " 

" No ; I am from a town near Boston." 

" And you are about leaving Ouabbin, I hear." 

" Yes ; my school term has ended, and I must go 
back to college. I am sorry my time here has been so 
short. A schoolmaster makes but a little ripple in 
society ; but among my forty pupils I hope there may 
be some who will remember me." 



3l8 QUAE BIN 

''You are sure to be remembered. A teacher may 
influence his pupils' whole life ; and, in any event, if he 
is a man of ideas, he cannot fail to make a lasting 
impression upon young minds." 

" But there is a deeper reason for my regret in leav- 
ing/' said Wentworth. " I think you must have guessed 
it. I have no art to conceal my feelings, and you must 
have seen how much I admire you." 

" You are very kind to say so, but I ought not to let 
you go on." 

" And why not } I know I must complete my studies, 
and that Time will not stand still for me; but while I 
am with you I am not my own master. You are more 
to me than ambition or any earthly good." 

" And if I cannot reciprocate, it would be wrong not 
to tell you, would it not } " 

• " I know the obstacles," he continued, as if he had 
not heard her. " I know that in my present state of 
uncertainty I ought not to speak, — that silence would 
better become me ; but I cannot put down the wish ; I 
cannot forego the hope. I could not go away without 
telling you." 

" It may be a relief to you, but you should know it 
is painful to me." 

''Is the knowledge that an honorable man loves you 
painful 1 " 

" Yes, when I know that his love cannot be re- 
turned." 

" Dear Miss Wicks, I do not ask for a return now. 
I know that I have to toil some years before that can 
be ; but, when Providence opens the way, if you should 
then be free, I shall come to offer you my love and my 
life." 



AN EXCURSION 319 

'^ I am afraid that time is not likely to bring us any 
nearer together." 

"■ May I ask if you feel aversion or indifference 
toward me ? " 

" Not at all, Mr. Wentworth. You are very far from 
disagreeable. I esteem you highly ; but as to marriage, 
I could not think of it ; and I see I must be plain with 
you." 

'' If it is not in my person, nor in what you know of 
my character, I am at a loss." 

" It would be enough to remind you of the time that 
must pass. An engagement with a young man who is 
still in college " — 

'* But is there not something more } " 

" I need not give any other reason." 

''But is there not another — something quite differ- 
ent.?" 

" I will be frank with you. My friends (and I mean 
chiefly my father) believe that you are unsettled in your 
religious belief." 

" Your friends think I am not quite orthodox. But 
do you know that among the most conscientious men 
there are those who cannot fit their conceptions into 
the lines of any written creed } I have never re- 
nounced the doctrines of the orthodox church in 
which I was brought up, but I confess I have some 
mis2:ivino;s." 

'' When one begins to doubt, I have heard say, there 
is no knowing where he may end." 

" He will not end badly if he determines to follow 
where truth leads." 

" Our minister says the worst enemies of religion are 
the unstable, who make conscience an excuse for doubt. 



k 



320 QUABBIN 

Who can say where you will be found a few years 
hence ? " 

*' I trust I shall always follow Christ ; and what 
Christian can do more ? But that is not enough, I 
know, for those who think there is no fruitful piety 
unless it is nailed upon a theologic frame. And, as I 
have declined assistance from the Education Society, 
because I would not pledge myself to preach, I fear 
I am regarded as little better than one of the wicked. 
But, I beg your pardon. Miss Wicks. It is not right or 
courteous to argue in this way. I respect your right 
to your opinions, and I hope we may never be wider 
apart than we are now. Let me repeat that, whatever 
you may say, I shall live in hope of becoming some day 
worthy of you, at least in a measure." 

Miss Wicks gently shook her head, while a melan- 
choly smile — if a look in which warm regard and hope- 
less pity were blended could be so called — played over 
her expressive features. She gave him her hand, which 
he kissed, and then they took their way back. Stewart 
looked a moment at them as they came near, and said to 
himself, " There seems to be something discomposing 
about that boasted view. When Stowe and Miss Grant 
returned there was a look in their faces that could not 
have been due to scenery, and now you two come back 
completely upset, both of you." Then turning to his 
companion, " It is well we didn't go, Miss Lois, isn't it } 
There should be one sane and cheerful couple." 

*'I don't know," said Lois; "I fear I belong to the 
flighty, rather than to those you call sane people." 

'' Kwdi yo2t desert me.?" said Stewart, ''then I am 
indeed unhappy. Well, wisdom will be justified of her 
one faithful child." 



AA^ EXCURSION 321 

He had done all he proposed to his sketch ; and so, 
taking up the canvas, he started with it toward the 
coach, while Wentworth and Stowe gathered the dishes 
and napkins into the basket. 

" I will sit beside the driv^er," said Stewart, " other- 
wise it would be difficult to save the ladies' dresses 
from being soiled by this fresh paint. Pity I haven't 
learned to use water-colors." 

Miss Wicks and Lois sat at the back; Eliza and Mr. 
Stowe took the middle seat, and Wentworth occupied 
the front. It was a preoccupied and silent party inside. 
The pair on the middle seat appeared thoughtful, yet 
not unhappy ; Lois was still wroth on account of the 
persistent silence of her companion during the day ; 
Wentworth felt bitterly that his impetuosity had led 
him into an impasse ; and Alma Wicks was wishing 
that he had remained silent. Stewart, meanwhile, was 
in excellent humor, holding his canvas on his knees 
edgewise, and, when not too heavily jolted, whistling, 
or humming, or singing in deep bass tones airs from 
the " Magic Flute." 

After supper at the hotel, Wentworth and Stewart 
strolled down toward the Crombie bridge. 

" Your departure seems sudden ; day after to-morrow, 
you say } " said Wentworth. 

" Yes ; I must be in my studio early in October, and 
I want to visit Lake George on the way." 

" I shall go when you go. Of course your sister had 
■■ told you, or written you, of these Ouabbin girls, had 
I she not } " 

wL " Yes ; and I confess I came here mainly to see 
^fchem." 



322 QUABBIN 

*'Miss Wicks" — Wentworth's countenance fell. 
*'Miss Wicks, I was going on to say," said Stewart 
gravely, 'Ms an almost ideally perfect character" — 

*' Well ? " said Went worth, in a rising and imperative 
tone, indicative of extreme impatience. 

'' Ideally perfect in character for a wife" — and there 
was a coming smile. 

"What pauses!" ejaculated Wentworth. ''For 
Heaven's sake, do finish your sentence ! " 

" For the wife of a calm and philosophic person like 
yourself," with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "I am not 
worthy of her." 

" Is any one V demanded Wentworth excitedly. 

" Probably no one. But I don't think it worth while 
to aspire. A less perfect woman would suit me 
better." 

" Such as Lois Grant, for instance "i " 

" Well, she is pretty and bright, and would make a 
cheery wife for a melancholy man." 

" You call yourself melancholy t " 

*' Whenever you see a fellow on stilts with good 
humor in public, you may be sure he is a desponding 
wretch when left to himself. I hope to go to Europe 
next year to see the galleries. It is an easy matter 
now ; the New York clipper-ships cross in thirty days, 
and sometimes even in twenty. If I were to marry, 
that would be a glorious bridal trip. I shall try to be 
saving, if that is possible, and make preparations ; and 
I may ask a young lady to go with me." 

" Why don't you ask her now } " 

" The proverb says, ' Never leap before you come to 
the stile.'" 

" Proverbs are rubbish. They are always cynical, 



AN EXCURSION 



J-O 



I 



and they are seldom fitted to actual circumstances. A 
word spoken now might prevent a sad misunderstand- 
ing hereafter." 

" I'll think of it. By the way, you were eager just 
now to know what I w^as going to say of Miss Wicks." 
"Naturally I was eager. I worship her ! " 
'' I rather thought that the prospect you went out 
with her to see was not that of the Connecticut Valley, 
but of the land of promise, like that from Pisgah." 
" No promise in it for me, I assure you." 
" The sad tone of your voice is catching. Let us cry." 
Then Wentworth told his friend, what the reader 
already knows, of Miss Wicks's tea-party, and of the 
recent conversation on the hillside. 

''The affair doesn't look promising," said Stewart. 
** According to Dr. Johnson, no one is ever reasoned 
out of a doctrine or position that he was not reasoned 
into. Prejudice is inveterate, especially when it has 
the sanction of religion ; there is no contending with it. 
There is little chance for you, unless the lady should go 
away from here, and come under different influences. 
And you have not shown much tact. Why must you 
blurt out your opinions ? As you haven't broken with 
her church, why need you have brought your pale 
doubts out of the cellar where they have sprouted ? 
And why should you have tried an assault instead of a 
carefully planned siege ? " 

" I must follow my instincts," said Wentworth. '' I 
coi/Zii^ not restrain my impulses, though I see I was un- 
wise ; and, as to my blurting out opinions, I cannot and 
would not conceal an honest thought, of whatever com- 
plexion, not for any advantage." 
*' Not for Miss Wicks ? " 



324 QUABBIN 

*' Not for any woman," said Wentworth doggedly. 

" Well, we'll think about it. You know v/e are to 
take tea with the Grant family to-morrow. Curious 
way they have in this village. Tea, indeed ! Why not 
a dinner } " 

*' Dinner-parties are seldom given ; principally be- 
cause everybody dines in the middle of the day. But 
a tea, with a re-enforcement of steaks, chickens, and 
oysters, is not a bad substitute for a dinner ; and then 
a sociable evening follows." 

'* I suppose we shall meet the minister and his wife." 

'' Yes, and James Stowe, who appears to have got on 
well. You see, he didn't look at Miss Wicks, who, for 
a minister's wife, w^ould be twice the woman that Eliza 
Grant is." 

" Unreasonable and perverse man that you are," said 
Stewart, " to quarrel with a fellow because he did not 
try to cut you out ! " 

'' If Mr. Wicks had been rich you would have seen ; 
but Stowe knows that the Grant girls are going to in- 
herit a pile of money, and he was bound to have one of 
them, if he could get her." 

The long drive and the events of the day had brought 
fatigue, and the friends separated early. 



ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 325 



CHAPTER XXXII 

ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 

The tea-party given by the Misses Grant comprised 
the minister and his wife, Mr. and Miss Wicks, Mr. 
Stowe, Dr. Fletcher, Mr. Wentworth, and Mr. Stewart. 
Mr. Grant and his daughters received their guests with 
frank courtesy, and in the case of the minister it rose 
to an affectionate and reverent greeting. The " tea " 
was served in bountiful style, and Stewart afterward 
acknowledged that no (teetotal) dinner could have been 
more appetizing or substantial. After the repast was 
over, the gentlemen were shown into the ''parlor," as 
the drawing-room was called, while the ladies lingered 
behind, according to custom. 

The minister began to talk with the painter about 
the scenery of the neighborhood, and the places he had 
visited, and showed that he had some feeling for land- 
scape, and some regard for art. Mr. Grant listened 
with interest ; for though he knew that a painter might 
be famous after death, he was not quite sure he would 
be a man to be altogether respected while living. The 
feeling among country people in regard to artists was 
shown by the questions put to Wentworth by ]\Iiss 
Wicks the day before. It will be remembered there 
had never been an artist in Quabbin, and the idea that 
landscape painting could be really an honorable and 



326 QUABBIN 

lucrative profession had never occurred to such men as 
Mr. Grant and Mr. Wicks. The latter said to Mr. 
Stewart, " I wonder yeou don't paint portraits." — '' Ah, 
no," said Stewart, ''that is a distinct branch of the art. 
Many great artists have painted portraits, but they 
usually chose their subjects. In a portrait, character 
is the thing ; and an artist might have twenty orders 
before he would have a chance to do himself credit. 
What is he to do when he is asked to paint all sorts of 
people, — the dull, the mean, bigoted, avaricious, or cun- 
ning } How will he make a brilliant picture out of an 
insipid or vulgar woman } " 

" But if he makes likenesses '^. " said Mr. Grant. 

*' A mere map of the features is nothing without the 
soul," said Stewart. ''If a portrait does not reveal 
character it is not art. The new and wonderful sun- 
pictures of Daguerre, taken on silver plates, ought to 
satisfy those who want mere likenesses ; although, as 
the sitter has to be motionless in o'larinc: sunli2:ht for 
some minutes, his eyes are apt to blink. I suppose you 
you have seen them, Mr. Grant } " 

" Yes ; I saw them in Boston at Plumb's. They are 
not taken in the country yet." 

" You are from New York } " said the minister to 
Stewart. 

" I live there, though I was born at some distance 
from the city." 

" By your name you must be of Scottish descent, like 
myself." 

"Yes. My grandfather came from Scotland." 

" We have great reason to rejoice in the Christian 
light and liberty of this land," said the minister. " It 
is in many things like Scotland." 



. ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 327 

*' And yet there are differences," said Stewart. "For 
instance, liberty has a meaning here that is not known 
anywhere else." 

''In speaking of liberty," said Wentworth, ''you 
mean probably to include equality." 

"Certainly," said Stewart. "Where there is not 
political equality, there is no true .liberty." 

"Where did the notion of political equality first 
appear .'* " asked Wentworth of the minister. " Do you 
find it in the early laws or customs of the colony t " 

"It had not occurred to the Puritans, I think," replied 
the minister. " They were Britons, and apparently had 
never questioned law and usage as to established ranks 
and orders of men. They were little given to theoriz- 
ing, and let things grow." 

" The most remarkable of their institutions," said 
Wen*tworth, " was the town, and that, as you say, grew 
up. It is the most important feature in local govern- 
ment, the realization of democracy. As to equality, it 
must have come from France. It was never heard of, 
as I believe, before it was incorporated in the Declara- 
tion of Independence." 

" Well," said Stewart, " there is another idea which 
appears to be embraced in your phrase 'Christian light 
and liberty,' and that is religious toleration. Where 
did that come from } " 

" Evidently not from the founders of Massachusetts," 
said Wentworth. " The history of the colony is full 
of painful proofs to the contrary." 

" No," said the minister ; " it must be confessed the 
fathers of this State were not 'tolerant.' Unhappily 
they did not see that truth by its own nature and pano- 
ply is invulnerable, and needs no protection from the 



328 QUABBIN 

temporal power. Roger Williams, whom they did not 
understand or appreciate, appears to have been the 
first in Christendom to perceive this just doctrine." 

" I am glad to hear you say that," said Went worth. 
*' Many are so fearful of countenancing reproach upon 
the Puritan fathers, that they wander away from the 
point of ethics, and defend the early intolerance on the 
irround that the exclusion of heretics and malecon- 
tents was a political necessity." 

" Was it not a political necessity } " asked Mr. Stowe. 
*^ And, as the colonists were what we might call a pri- 
vate corporation, were they not right to keep out any 
intruders whom they judged dangerous to their little 
state } " 

*' The political reason may have been urgent," said 
Wentworth ; '' but that is not taking high ground. It 
is defending a false position in morals by reasons of 
expediency." 

*' The fathers were wise in their generation," said 
the minister, '' but I don't think they consciously took 
a low position in regard to Christian ethics. They 
were taught by many trials, and generation by gener- 
ation they rose into clearer light ; but from the begin- 
ning they had high and noble aims, and impressed their 
character upon the colony. Few founders of churches, 
and few lawgivers, have higher claims upon the admira- 
tion of mankind." 

*' What you say of their character is true," said 
Wentworth. 

** There is another criticism," said Stewart. ''A 
friend of mine, who is a student of constitutional law, 
finds fault with the early legislation, and especially 
with the administration of law, as showing ignorance 



ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 329 

of legal principles, as well as low and narrow views of 
the functions of government. He says that lawyers 
had been excluded, and not allowed to practise, and 
that they had no standing — in Massachusetts at least 
— until about the time of the Revolution ; that for 
a hundred years persons were appointed magistrates 
who were notoriously incompetent ; that the clergy did 
their best to set up the Mosaic code ; that, in short, 
there was an almost total subversion of justice as it 
had been administered for centuries in English courts. 
You see, I reel off what my friend told me. I am not 
a lawyer." 

'' The influence of the clergy has been often the sub- 
ject of unfriendly comment," said the minister, "and the 
government has been called a theocracy ; but I believe 
that in early times the Puritan ministers had no undue 
influence, no more than was exercised by the Romish 
or the Episcopal clergy. The times are altered. In 
an age of faith the people willingly followed their 
spiritual leaders." 

*' That hardly meets the case," said Stewart. " If 
what my friend says is true, the Puritan clergy not only 
wanted the influence and leadership to which they were 
entitled, but determined there should be no other. 
They feared able lawyers, and preferred uneducated 
magistrates whom they could manage. No other lead- 
ing church has suppressed lawyers." 

" Are lawyers so very important } " asked Mr. Stowe. 
" Do they not, as a class, stir up strife, and despoil 
both plaintiff and defendant by the machinery of 
courts } " 

*' Can you have an intelligent school of medicine 
without physicians.?" said Stewart, "or of theology 



330 QUAE BIN 

without an educated clergy ? And can there be a 
system of law without trained lawyers ? It is not 
worth while to dwell upon the knavery of pettifoggers. 
It is better to look at law with the eyes of Hooker 
or Bacon. What basis has society, what protection 
is there for property, for liberty, or for life, but in a 
settled system of law.? " 

" I should think that many of the troubles of the 
colony," said Wentworth, *' arose from the want of 
legal knowledge, and from disregarding the rules of 
judicial procedure. I am a Puritan to the last drop 
of my blood, but it appears to me that the course of 
the early rulers of Massachusetts in endeavoring to 
administer justice without regard to Vv^hat we should 
now call constitutional principles and methods was the 
occasion of calamities and scandals." 

" The Christian liberty and light of which you 
speak," said Stewart to the minister, " is complex, and 
seems to have largely come from without. The legacy 
which the Puritans left was personal liberty (as far as it 
was then possible), and with it an exalted character, full 
of faith and zeal. For political equality, which is the 
latest phase of democracy, we are indebted to Jeffer- 
son and Rousseau ; while for toleration, which is the 
Christian corollary of equality, we are indebted, as you 
have said, to Roger Williams. These related doctrines 
are now so universally accepted, we easily forget that 
equality and toleration are so modern, and were once 
so foreign to the thought of the fathers." 

"I haven't anythin' to say agin toleration," said 
Mr. Wicks, '' though what them Methodists (not 
more'n two'r three dozen on *em), git by goin' tu their 
meetin' which they couldn't git by goin' to aourn, I 



ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 331 

dunno ; but I shouldn't like to see the time come when 
the ministers won't hev any word ter say abaout makin' 
the laws. I was allers sorry when people was let out 
from payin' the minister-tax. The whole people oughter 
contribute ter the s'port of the gospel, ez the whole 
people gits the benefit on't." 

Mr. Wicks was a man of fair practical sense, but his 
mind moved in unexpected curves, rather than in right 
lines. 

'' True," said Mr. Grant. '' What would liberty and 
law be worth without Christian principle V 

*' The preachin' of the gospel, an' the influence of 
the church," continued Mr. Wicks, " is what holds 
things together. Religion's better'n sheriffs an' con- 
stables. Who makes th' expense of courts but the un- 
believers ? Who fills the jails an' poor-haouses but 
th' unbelievers .? The taxes for sech things fall on 
sober an' God-fearin' men, who ain't responsible for 
the bad behavior. So I say the unbelievers oughter 
pay their sheer fer preachin'." 

" I am afraid your arguments," said Dr. Fletcher, 
*'are like tools carried loose in a basket, — they cut one 
another. If we admit that the church restrains crime, 
and so lessens the expense for criminals, then the min- 
ister tax is for your advantage. But do you think the 
unbelievers would behave better if they were compelled 
to support worship which they wouldn't attend ? " 

" I can't say," said Mr. Wicks. '' On'y I feel 't they 
oughter be made ter du it." 

" I lately had a talk with one of your elderly people," 
said Wentworth, " and he told me that in the old times 
when all paid the minister tax, the conduct of the in- 
temperate and depraved was far worse than now. They 



332 QUABB/iV 

were often drunk, or indecent, or malicious, from sheer 
perversity or defiance." 

"It is pretty certain," said Dr. Fletcher, "that men 
are not reformed from drinking-habits, nor made moral 
or religious by law." 

" Certainly not," said Mr. Stewart, "as long as they 
think they are wronged as well as coerced." 

" True religion," said Mr. Stowe, " comes from di- 
vine grace, and is an inward life, while law can only 
control the outward action." 

" I have been reflecting upon the analysis you made 
of liberty," said the minister to Mr. Stewart, "and I 
would suggest that, although neither political equality 
nor religious toleration originated with the Puritans, 
yet their character counted for so much, — I mean 
their sublime faith and truth, their conscientiousness, 
courage, and self-devotion, — that th^ State and society 
they founded was in many respects unexampled. We 
admit that Rousseau developed the doctrine of political 
equality ; but what a wretched use his disciples made of 
it ! Roger Williams was the apostle of toleration, — all 
honor to him ! — but is Rhode Island to-day in any way 
more advanced than Massachusetts } A people actuated 
by high and holy motives goes on developing its 
powers, and receives new light from whatever quarter. 
But the most perfect system of political and moral 
philosophy would not have built up our State, if the 
character of its founders had been other than it 
was." 

" I cannot abide the spirit that is forever seeking to 
disparage the Puritans and Pilgrims," said Mr. Stowe 
with w^armth. " It isn't honorable or decent to belittle 
our ancestors ; nor is it just to try them by modern 



ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 333 

standards. In actual worth they were heroes com- 
pared with the puny time-servers of to-day." 

*' The Puritans were not my ancestors," said Stewart 
calmly. ''They are entitled to veneration for what 
they were and did ; but their principles and policy may 
be properly judged in the light of history, as we judge 
of the ideas and conduct of the Covenanters, and of the 
Long-Parliament men. It does not appear to me dis- 
honorable or indecent to point out their errors or fail- 
ino-s ; because such lessons are proper for the instruction 
of mankind." 

The entrance of the ladies put an end to the discus- 
sion ; and after a little time the piano was opened, and 
there were songs, duets, and instrumental pieces. The 
minister had a refined taste in music, within certain 
limits, and was an attentive listener ; his wife was a 
woman of vigorous mind, with few feminine elegances, 
and wholly absorbed in her husband and his work ; but 
she smiled upon the singers in a way that was meant 
to be gracious. Dr. Fletcher, who was a frequent guest, 
stood by the piano, and turned over the leaves, while 
his head kept airy time with the music, turning now 
and then with a triumphant look at the company, as if 
to emphasize some striking passage. He had been an 
admirer of Lois Grant, and had worn for her his finest 
costumes ; but, as he had made little headway, he was 
now thinking of cultivating an intimacy with Eliza ; 
and his attentions to her were so marked that the 
divinity student's dark face soon became a dingy green. 
Wentworth was near Miss Wicks, and was very quiet. 
He felt that if he should ever win it would be in a 
waiting race. 

The painter was in excellent humor, in spite of the 



334 QUAE BIN 

little breeze in the discussion, and he adapted himself 
with easy grace to the gayety of Lois, the gravity of 
her father, and the sombre dignity of the minister, in 
turn. The minister often smiled, but it was like the 
play of wintry sunlight on marble. He could not make 
out Stewart. The painter was a man of the world, and 
that was not the sign of a godly man. Evidently, also, 
he was a man of ideas, well read, and well trained ; and 
that of itself was a problem ; for half a century ago 
there were few cultivated men outside of the learned 
professions. The minister continued to look askailce 
at Wentworth, and was uneasy at the thought that the 
teacher and his friend Stewart had become intimate 
with favorite members of his flock. 

The party was soon divided into groups. The minis- 
ter had a quiet conversation with Mr. Stowe, and 
learned that he proposed to enter the service of the 
''American Board" as a missionary to the Nestorians, 
and that he desired to take with him Eliza Grant as 
help-meet. The minister seemed pleased, and promised 
to support him with Mr. Grant, if it should be necessary. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Stewart had approached Lois, and 
in a few low-toned sentences let her know that he was 
to leave Ouabbin the next day, and on one account 
(not named) deeply regretted going ; that he should re- 
turn the next spring, and in the latter part of summer 
intended to sail to Europe for a long visit. Lois lis- 
tened eagerly, but, except in the play of her expressive 
features, made no reply. 

Turning to the minister Stewart said with a frank 
smile, "There was one matter I did not mention when 
we were talking of the Puritans, — a matter that con- 
cerns me personally. It is, that in those old times 



. ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 335 

I might have been arrested and put in the stocks, 
or banished along with fiddlers, beggars, and other 
vagabonds." 

"Hardly possible," said the minister. 

" I am quite sure of it. To begin with, no one 
would have bought my pictures, and so I should have 
been 'without visible means of support,' My vagrant 
life while sketching would have been a scandal. My 
fancy for neckties would have made me a suspect, and 
my velvet coat might have brought me within the 
sumptuary laws. Well, perhaps not an arrest, but an 
intimation. I should have been made to understand 
that there was no room nor welcome." 

*' I see you are jesting," said the minister. 

'* No, indeed, replied Stewart ; " and the ground you 
take shows how public sentiment has changed. Half a 
century ago the clergy and magistrates would not have 
looked upon me with your friendly eyes." 

Seeing that Mr. Wicks was listening, and believing 
that his daughter was taking note also, the painter 
continued, — 

'' Then as to toleration, that beautiful trait of Chris- 
tian charity, permit me to say, with all respect, that I 
fear the descendants of the Puritans have not quite got 
hold of it. It is hard for them to admit the possibility 
of beins: in the wrong ; and their behavior to those who 
are unsound in the faith is, to say the least, seldom 
quite brotherly. I believe my friend there," pointing 
to Wentworth, " has been made to feel it ; and he is 
the most conscientious man I ever knew. If there was 
ever a sincere and devout seeker after truth, he is the 
man. He is of the stuff of which martyrs and heroes 
are made ; and yet his life is overcast, and his future is 
uncertain, on account of 2. perhaps'' 



336 QUABBIN 

Stewart did not raise his voice, but it had a vibrant 
and carrying quality, and he felt sure that every word 
told upon those around him. 

" Your warmth does you credit," said the minister; 
''but, as we are both speaking plainly, you will pardon 
me for suggesting that the value of your opinion, for 
us, depends upon your own conceptions of divine truth, 
and your relations with evangelical believers." 

" I think I can testify to what I have seen, no matter 
what may be my opinions ; and I know the working of 
my friend's mind, as a watchmaker knows the movement 
of a watch." 

" That is more than I should undertake to say of any 
friend, however intimate," said the minister. '* God 
only knows the heart. Let me ask if you are a mem- 
ber of a church } " 

*' I have been, but I fear my membership has lapsed." 

" I thought that might be the case. How can you 
expect that we should accept your judgment, when 
you confess that you are not qualified by any relation 
with the church of Christ } A worldly minded man 
may lead a moral and respectable life ; but his views 
upon the religious character of a friend who, I may say, 
is noted for a tendency to doubt, cannot carry much 
weight." 

'* What you say," said Stewart, '' shows that there is 
a wide difference between modern Christianity and that 
of the New Testament. Christ never talked theology ; 
his creed had but one article, and he gave but two pre- 
cepts. But I had not reflected. People do not easily 
get out of the subtilties in which they have been trained. 
I fear J have done my friend hurt instead of good. We 
are both to leave this place to-morrow, and I hoped to 



■ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 337 

say something that might make him regretted, and 
welcomed if he should ever come again." 

Mr. Stowe by movements, gestures, and frowns suc- 
ceeded in driving away Dr. Fletcher, and then took his 
place by the side of Eliza Grant. Once there, his seri- 
ous features wore a look of gloomy content. He did 
not seem an ardent lover, but a lawful and godly pos- 
sessor. What fascination he exerted upon his partner 
could not be divined. Women when they marry gen- 
erally prefer looking up to a master, rather than down 
upon a suppliant or servant. She was going to leave 
her home, her father and sister, for a husband whose 
love was more allied to duty than tenderness, and go 
into a distant land to encounter hardship and danger, 
and would not return for many years. It was the old 
Puritan courage, devotion, sacrifice, such as has been 
shown in every generation. 

Miss Wicks was talking absently with Dr. Fletcher. 
Her father and Mr. Grant were listening to the minis- 
ter, who counselled standing fast in the old ways ; and 
the minister's stately wife, who had seen everything, 
was talking earnestly with Lois. At this point Went- 
worth and Stewart took leave of the company with a 
word of farewell and a shake of the hand of each. 
Their absence produced a void. 

*'I tell you," said Stewart, in walking home with 
Wentworth, " it is not religion itself which is antago- 
nistic to human progress ; but it is the design of men 
like yonder minister to make it so. You told me how 
he talked to you about Scott and Shakespeare ; how 
jealous he was of literature; and it is the same with 
everything. Give him, and people like hi.n, full swing, 
and there would not be a poet, novelist, painter, or com- 



338 QUABBIN 

poser. The clergy have yielded somewhat, but grudg- 
ingly, and because they have been obliged to. They 
would like to have the old darkness return. They would 
have music ' experience religion ; ' they would frighten 
gayety into tears, put scientists in leading-strings, smash 
the classic statues, and turn the splendors of Titian and 
Leonardo to the wall. What a world they would make 
of it ! And let the best and purest man say a word in 
favor of light, life, and beauty, he is the target of arrowy 
texts." 

*' You are 'riding the high horse,' " said Wentworth, 
''and you are not wholly just. The orthodox clergy 
show some traces of the old intolerance ; it is born in 
them ; but they are generally just and considerate, 
especially in populous communities, and they do not 
wish to deprive their people of innocent pleasure. In 
this town there is a provincial, or rather a parochial 
narrowness ; things move slowly, the old shadow over- 
hangs." 

" There is no need of my repeating things which you 
know perfectly well," said Stewart; "but let me say, 
the things which make for humanity must move on to- 
gether. A broad system of education, including reli- 
gion for the soul and athletics for the body, holds the 
centre ; but law, natural science, industrial training, 
medicine, literature, music, the fine arts, and organized 
philanthropy, all have their separate claims, and not 
one of them can be slighted. Why should religion 
limit literature or crowd out art, any more than these 
should restrict religion } I think there are many things 
' needful ;' and it is a wrong and shame to arouse or play 
upon a morbid fear of death, in order to secure for won 
ship or piety, or whatever you please to call it, an undue 



• ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 339 

share of men's time and thought. We have so many 
useful and agreeable things to do, that we ouglit to 
spend our hours as a miser pays out gold, giving none 
without value received. And to think that minister 
was not willing to allow those bright young women to 
read Shakespeare, the one transcendent genius ! It is 
shameful ! I have a mind to found a new religion, without 
a creed. Life shall be fully employed. Labor, study, 
country walks, poetry, music, and art, with love to God 
and man, all together will make life worth living." 

'' It is not so much a new religion that is wanted," 
said Wentworth, "as common-sense, broad culture, and 
liberality." 

The subsequent history of the young people who 
have engaged our attention does not concern the prog- 
ress of Ouabbin, and may be briefly dismissed. 

In the course of the year the Rev. James Stowe was 
married to Miss Eliza Grant, and the pair set out upon 
their long journey to Asia. 

Mr. Stewart returned, as he promised, the following 
spring, and made numerous sketches, besides one lovely 
portrait of a young lady. He was courteously received 
by Mr. Grant, who had taken pains to make inquiries 
in New York as to the painter's character and social 
standing. In the course of the summer Lois became 
Mrs. Stewart, but not until she had told her lover of 
her being brought down the mountain, and of her 
dramatic parting from Herman Field. 

Miss Alma Wicks, after remaining single for a num- 
ber of years, married a man somewhat older than her- 
self, in a neighboring town. She was a pattern of 
motherhood, adored by her husband and children, held 



340 QUAE BIN 

in honor in the church, and the friend of all who needed 
help and sympathy. 

David Wentworth finished his studies with honor, 
and having grown more and more reluctant to bind 
himself to a creed, renounced theology, fitted himself 
as an instructor in English literature, and became a 
professor in a Western university. At forty he was 
still unmarried. 

It is not to be supposed that Quabbin had reached its 
possibilities in the time of the good Robert ; it had 
been merely set on a moral and intellectual foundation, 
and was in a condition to receive the benefit of the im- 
provements which time w^as to bring. Its institutions, 
like its shade-trees, were undeveloped. The subsequent 
years, which have covered its dwellings with foliage, so 
that from the hill the village seems to be sunk in a 
billowy sea of green, have also brought new and unex- 
pected advantages to the people. Town and country are 
in substantial accord. The public schools have been re- 
organized and graded ; and now, with able and permanent 
teachers, efficient supervision, and pleasant surround- 
ings, are probably as good as they can be made for the 
present population. The school of the highest grade 
receives pupils from all parts of the town, and the most 
distant of them are brought in wagons at the public ex- 
pense. The roads have been greatly improved ; the 
common and most of the private yards are neatly kept, 
and sidewalks are extending from the centre in various 
directions. The meeting-house has a large and fine- 
toned organ. A substantial town hall has been built, 
and in it is maintained a free public library of varied and 
solid excellence. 



• ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 3^1 

The chief feature in the modern church is the in- 
creased share of labor undertaken by the laity. In the 
old times the brethren assisted in the Sunday-school 
and in the prayer-meetings, but now they are organized 
in disciplined bands, Orthodox and Methodists to- 
gether, and go out on missionary tours in the outlying 
districts, and in adjoining towns. An amusing story is 
told, that one of these Ouabbin bands, on its w^ay for 
the first time to a meeting to be held on a Sunday after- 
noon in a hill town, came upon a farmer who was 
killing and dressing hogs, and another who with his 
men was niaking cider. Seeing the unlooked-for inva- 
sion of the church militant, the Sabbath-breakers took 
to their heels, and remained hid until daylight was past. 
Generally the people so visited receive the Christian 
w^orkers kindly, and often return the compliment. 

How strange all this would have appeared in the time 
of Joshua I. ! Equally strange to him and his people 
would have appeared the antiphonal reading of the 
psalm in the morning service, and the profuse floral 
decoration of the pulpit and communion-table. The 
disciples and contemporaries of Cotton Mather, or of 
Jonathan Edwards, would find little to please them in 
the worship or sermons at Ouabbin or elsewhere in 
Massachusetts. 

Quabbin has some right to self-gratulation. Few 
towns of its size — about one thousand souls — have 
done so much ; but it remains quiet and modest : the 
only paeans heard are from the song-birds which have 
repeopled the orchards and copses, and fill the air with 
delight all day. With morning newspapers, the tele- 
graph, and three daily mails, Ouabbin belongs to the 
great world; but it breakfasts before seven o'clock, 



342 QUAE BIN 

dines without ceremony at one, and goes to bed after 
an early supper. Comfort and content lodge in every 
house, for there is not a pauper in the region. The 
sunlight nowhere lies fairer than on its three hills, and 
the heat of a midsummer's day is followed by the cool 
south-west wind that sweeps up the valley in the even- 
ing. 

Then let the elderly people say " Haow," if they 
prefer that locution ; and let their thoughts be bounded 
by their daily vision ; for as good English is heard in 
the pulpit and in the schools, and as a well-chosen and 
growing library is to furnish the coming generation 
with knowledge and broad ideas, the future of Ouabbin 
is assured. 



LITERATURE 343 



CHAPTER XXXIII 



LITERATURE 



There are familiar facts which at times strike us 
with a sudden sense of novelty or strangeness. 

The name of New England suggests a modern 
origin ; and it is sometimes with surprise, as if his- 
tory or arithmetic must be at fault, that we find the 
date of its settlement to have been as long ago as the 
early part of the reign of Charles I. Then, when we 
look back along the mighty course of literature, and 
think of the great names in the Victorian era, in that 
of the Georges, of Queen Anne, of William and Mary, 
and of the Stuarts, we see that the largest part of 
English poetry, history, fiction, and essays, has been 
produced since the Pilgrims sailed from Southampton. 
So, during the two centuries w^hile the Puritans were 
vanquishing Antinomians, Baptists, and Quakers, or 
recording the miraculous providences of God in favor 
of his exiled servants, or reiterating and fortifying the 
scheme of salvation according to Calvin, or combatting 
demons by the exposure of witchcraft, there appeared 
in the British Isles the poets from Milton to Tennyson, 
historians from Clarendon to Carlyle, novelists from 
Fielding to Thackeray, essayists from Addison to 
Macaulay, as well as other men of genius unclassified. 

In the New World there was no literature of general 



344 QUAE BIN 

interest, aside from the discussion of American inde- 
pendence, until Bryant's "Thanatopsis" and Irving's 
*' Sketch Book " appeared. In spite of the many obvious 
reasons that have been given for this protracted barren- 
ness, the fact remains a matter of wonder ; for many 
of the colonists were able and liberally educated 
men. 

Genius is seldom equally distributed as to time or 
place by any system of averages, else there should 
have been some few striking works in Boston or in 
New England in the course of two centuries. But no ; 
their poetry ranges between the platitudes of the Bay 
Psalm Book and the painful sixteenth century verse of 
Anne Bradstreet ; their annals are without literary art, 
and their discourses void of almost everything but 
energy and piety. Excepting the frisky and pedantic 
Cotton Mather, their writers seem to have benumbed 
whatever they touched. 

Water in a flowing current retains its life and fresh- 
ness, but left in a hollow or slough, away from move- 
ment, it becomes stagnant. The colony of the Bay 
was like a solitary pool which no angel came to 
trouble. 

Whether genius be the rare flower of intellect and 
feeling, or, as some say, only '' a splendid disease," its 
manifestations are capricious and inscrutable. The 
speed of a well-descended colt can be predicted from 
the time it is foaled ; but who will venture to say of a 
babe, no matter of what parentage, "This child is to 
become a poet " } A fond father, who had allowed his 
son to study music instead of going into business, said 
apologetically, *' Why isn't it a good thing to have a 
Mozart or a Be-tho-ven in the family ? " If the 



LITER A TURE 345 

singer's wish could make the song, the top of Par- 
nassus, as Lowell observes, might be the most thickly 
settled part of the country. 

The soil and atmosphere of Quabbin, at least up to 
the time of our narration, must have been unsuitable 
for rearing a poet or artist. There was in progress 
some mental cultivation and taste for the beautiful, but 
no freedom or expansion ; mind was constrained to act 
in grooves and upon practical themes. But it is inter- 
esting to know that in a similar small town, some forty 
miles west, and under almost the same conditions, 
Bryant had already written poems, which his father, a 
country doctor, carried in his odorous saddle-bags, and 
read with tears of honest pride in the houses of his 
patients. The youth had been named William Cullen, 
after an eminent Scottish medical writer, and perhaps 
with a paternal intention ; but the wish, if it existed, 
was not fulfilled ; it was a poet, and not a doctor, who 
had come into the world. 

About the same time Emerson was occupied with 
philosophic thoughts tinged with poetry. He had 
already (1837) delivered his address upon the American 
Scholar, in which was a definite renunciation of depend- 
ence upon Old World thought and models. Quabbin 
had never heard of him, and did not hear of him until 
long afterward ; bu^ no literary contemporary, whether 
friend or foe, escaped his influence. All weather-vanes 
high enough to be touched by celestial airs pointed to 
Concord. The ideas and even the language of the 
time bore witness of the genius that stamped its fresh 
phrases upon the memories of men. His direct influ- 
ence never affected Calvinists, and it is not at all 
probable that the good Robert IV. ever read a line of 



346 QUABBIN 

his essays or poems ; but he was an abiding force, 
and affected, directly or indirectly, a generation of 
writers, so that people of even moderate attainments, 
and in obscure places, were unconsciously his disciples. 
Hawthorne was just beginning his career with the 
simple yet exquisite tales which were the* precursors of 
his romances. They were written for magazines, and 
attracted very little attention. Unaffected simpHcity 
is not often understood at first, because most people 
think that genius is shown by glitter and point. Time 
and the study of classic models are necessary for the 
due appreciation of such perfect work. If Hawthorne 
had any readers in Ouabbin before the publication of 
the "Scarlet Letter," which is doubtful, he would have 
been considered as quite inferior to N. P. Willis, the 
idol of romantic readers of that day. In his stories there 
was vigor and dash ; his heroines were brilliant and 
impossible, like their pictures in the annuals and ladies' 
magazines ; nature sat to him in full dress, and his 
triumphant heroes recoiled before no obstacles. In his 
verse was thought to be blended the passion of Byron, 
the sweetness of Moore, and the magic of Scott. And 
his sacred poems, easy amplifications of biblical narra- 
tives, how they were copied, quoted, and declaimed, 
even in little places like Ouabbin ! For some years his 
popularity was almost universal. In this early period 
he was the writer who was always named first ; some 
few critics rated him more justly, but meanwhile, his 
supremacy was seldom questioned. Had a youth writ- 
ten verses, it was to Willis they were sent for an en- 
couraging word. It was to Willis that most literary 
novices applied for advice, and seldom in vain ; for 
never was a reigning favorite more amiable and helpful. 



LITER A TURE 



347 



Longfellow, too, was being heard of. When the 
*' Voices of the Night" appeared (1839), the impres- 
sion upon cultivated readers was solemn and thrilling, 
as well as tender and delightful. It was the first time 
in America that such sustained melody, such delicate 
and spiritual thought, and such touching lessons, had 
been united in verse. It was an uplifting sensation to 
feel that after so long a time a poet had arisen who 
might become the Voice of the New World. " The 
human heart ," says Landor, *' is the world of poetry ; 
the imagination is only its atmosphere." In "The Psalm 
of Life," '' The Footsteps of Angels," and " The Be- 
leaguered City," there seemed to be embodied what men 
love, — the poetry of their own lives. Probably no poet 
ever had more immediate and loyal recognition. In 
our later times, when the heart has yielded to the 
brain, the notion of poetry is something in which Kant, 
Pascal, and Omar Khayyam have an equal share. Sim- 
ple lays of human feeling are banished ^o the nursery, 
whither their old-fashioned lovers must go. 

Whittier, also, had begun to write, though not in the 
free and large-hearted style which he afterward attained. 
But some of his Indian legends, his Quaker ballads, and 
his burning appeals for the slave, had already impressed 
men of liberal minds and generous sympathies. At 
that time, as has been stated, Ouabbin had but one 
zealous anti-slavery man, and he read the poems of 
Whittier, as they appeared in the Liberator and the 
Eviancipator, with ever-increasing admiration. 

Fitz Greene Halleck was already known by his 
beautiful poem on Burns, and by his tribute to his 
friend J. R. Drake ; and Drake was known by his ''Cul- 
prit Fay," a piece of fancy which greatly pleased youth- 



348 QUAE BIN 

ful minds. J. G. Percival was remembered as the author 
of the *' Coral Grove " and other poems copied into the 
school-books. 

In all these instances an acquaintance with the new 
authors came primarily to school-boys through their 
reading-lessons. The " American First-Class Book," 
compiled by the Rev. John Pierpont, himself a poet, 
was the first and most effective instructor in modern 
literature ; and, as his compilation was in the hands of 
all the youth, he did more to cultivate the literary taste 
of New England than all the magazines, and all other 
agencies together. 

Cooper and other early novelists were only names in 
Ouabbin, for obvious reasons. 

The brilliant and polished Everett, who was for four 
years Governor of the State, during the second min- 
ister's reign, appeared, from the standpoint of Ouabbin, 
as one might imagine an ancient orator in classic robes, 
who had been turned to marble and pedestalled for the 
admiration of posterity. But Ouabbin knew only his 
utterances in public life ; it did not know his literary 
essays, nor the animated part he had played in the 
awakening of Harvard College. 

George Bancroft, who had been a teacher in a town 
not very far from Quabbin, had, at the time of our nar- 
ration, begun his life-long studies in American history, 
and had published his first three volumes. The time 
had not come when a Democrat could make any deep 
or favorable impression upon the people of Western 
Massachusetts, nor when a history based upon the 
ideas of Jefferson would be received as authentic 
among the sons of Federalists. It is unlikely that he 
had either admirers or readers in Quabbin. It was 



LITER A TURE 349 

early for the appreciation of a philosophic history of 
America ; in fact, the time has hardly come even now. 

It would be expecting much to look for any acquaint- 
ance with Prescott's " Ferdinand and Isabella " (pub- 
lished in 1837), in a small town so far away from the 
literary centre. It was an event of some importance 
for the capital, as it was the first historical work of a 
high order produced in America ; ^ and its thorough- 
ness, no less than its form and finish, were acknowl- 
edged by competent judges everywhere. It was a most 
encouraging sign of the times, and added to the light 
that was beginning to illuminate the State and nation. 

Lydia Maria Child had published two novels, and 
some works upon education and domestic economy. 
In one of the novels were supposed addresses by 
James Otis and the celebrated Whitefield, which were 
everywhere copied, and often believed to be genuine. 
The patriotic speech attributed to Otis was often 
declaimed in schools. 

Much inspiration came to the youth of New Eng- 
land from the orations of Daniel Webster. Their 
(most striking passages were in the school-books, and 
were admired more than any other specimens of rhet- 
oric. The oration at Plymouth in 1820, upon the two 
hundredth anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims ; 
those at Bunker's Hill upon laying the corner-stone, 
and upon completing the monument; and the cele- 
brated reply to Hayne of South Carolina in the U. S. 
Senate, furnished the most brilliant and admired selec- 
tions. Webster had formed his style by reading the 
Bible and Bunyan ; seldom was purer or more idio- 

1 Bancroft's work, dealing largely with British treatment of the colonies, 
though " of a high order," is controversial for English critics. 



350 QUAE BIN 

matic English spoken than his ; but he had a glowing 
imagination, and great depth of feeling,, and, as he 
went on speaking, his simple phrases became ample 
and majestic ; his figures, in which he was a consum- 
mate artist, were more dazzling ; and before he finished 
he always raised his auditors to his own high level. 

It is said that such orations are out of date, but it is 
equally true that no such orator has since been heard. 
Whoever will read any of the familiar and well-worn 
passages understandingly and with due emphasis, and 
will endeavor to keep in mind the impressive scene in 
which the oration was originally delivered, will find 
the spirit of the author gaining hold of him, and when 
he comes to the end will confess to having a lamp in 
his throat. 

The literary periodicals of this time (about 1840) 
were generally feeble and superficial. Some of them 
were largely made up of articles "''borrowed" from 
British magazines ; and their original contributors 
were poorly paid, when paid at all. Five dollars was 
not considered a contemptible sum to offer a writer ; 
some of Hawthorne's early tales brought him no more. 
In looking over these magazines we get an impression 
that is both painful and comic. Among the inapti- 
tudes and the crude attempts at fine writing, there are 
occasional gems from poets who were just becoming 
known ; but it is evident the number of cultivated 
readers was small, and the managers strove to attract 
the public by means of fashion-plates, meretricious 
engravings, and other devices. 

The progress of American literature, and of literary 
taste among readers, was exceedingly slow, — almost 
imperceptible. Excepting the eminent preachers and 




Playmates kv thk Haystack 



LITERATURE 



51 



the public orators, few literary men had any following, 
or any serious consideration. British authors held 
the field, and it was not supposed they would ever 
have successful American rivals. The history of this 
development would take us far beyond the limits of 
time and space proper for the story of Quabbin ; but 
even fifty years ago the change was in progress, and 
the faint streaks of dawn have since brightened into a 
still advancing day. 

Of the difficulties which sixty years ago stood in 
the way of acquiring a fair knowledge of literature, 
enough has been said in former chapters. For the 
elder people of Quabbin the great authors were only 
luminous names, — mere points of light, distant and 
unknown, like stars. By stated reading-lessons, and 
by the efforts of a few enlightened schoolmasters, the 
younger generation got some notion of the power of 
thought and imagination, and the distinction of style 
of the masters of English. But a general acquaint- 
ance with literature is not to be expected until after 
education has been universal, and society has acquired a 
literary tone ; nor, indeed, until ample public or private 
libraries have been established and used. 

The qualities of literary works can only be estimated 
after repeated comparisons, and after free interchange 
of opinions with other readers. When men come to 
see that literature and art are the only enduring titles 
to renown, and that merely commercial nations have no 
place in history, then the great poets, thinkers, and 
artists loom up like mountains. People who have 
taken up reading systematically, or who read much, 
even cursorily, soon recognize the fact that there is no 
pleasure like it, and that it is almost the only distinc- 
tion between the wise and fools. 



352 QUAE BIN 

After the earning of one's livelihood, the care for 
religion, public order, and common schools, there is 
nothing so important as the general circulation of 
well-chosen books. This truth gradually dawned upon 
Quabbin, and in recent years, as has been stated, a 
public library has been set up in its town hall. 

It was not the fortune of such a small town to have 
any part in the literary awakening referred to in this 
chapter ; it was much if some of its people could ap- 
preciate the new and reviving spirit which was abroad. 

The beginning of a native literature was in one 
aspect an offshoot from the parent stock ; and, in an- 
other, a new and distinct growth. American literature, 
which is a fact, and not simply a future possibility, is 
connected with its venerable parent by indissoluble ties. 
Physical barriers, such as the ocean, do not interfere 
with the intimate union of a dual literature any more 
than they separate spiritual existences. In its origin and 
traditions American literature is necessarily English to 
the core ; but in time its material characteristics, 
springing from soil, climate, and vegetation, together 
with the virile spirit of democratic institutions, and 
new tendencies coming from the mixture of races, gave 
it such distinctive qualities that the ahna mater might 
hesitate about recognizing her offspring. 

Few of these considerations had occurred to the 
people of Quabbin, or of Massachusetts, sixty years 
ago. Bobolinks and catbirds were singing merrily in 
meadows and bushes, and golden orioles hung their 
^* hammock nests " at the tips of elm-tree boughs ; but 
in the accepted poetry one read only of British larks, 
thrushes, and robins. The hillsides were rosy with 
acres of laurel ; azaleas brightened and perfumed the 



LITERATURE 353 

river-banks ; the cardinal flower flamed in swampy 
nooks ; in the spring woods the mayflower crept out 
with its pink-and-white blooms from under the melting 
snow ; but all these indigenous beauties were unsung. 
Country life, seen too near, was coarse and vulgar, 
because no poet had looked at it with the Claude 
Lorraine glass of genius. 

Under equal laws, a well-descended and well-taught 
people were making progress in civilization, and in 
establishing a national character ; and there was no 
hint of it in literature, except in the tasteless declama- 
tion of popular orators. But all these things were to 
appear in good time, in romance, poem, and essay. 
Western grapes might spring from imported vines, but 
the racy flavor and perfume drawn from the soil of the 
New World was sure to be manifest in the ripened 
clusters. 



354 QUAE BIN 



CHAPTER XXXIV 

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 

When a new ship glides on its ways into the water, 
the least imaginative of the spectators lets his mind 
run forward upon its course over oceans, up to the 
time when it shall sail no more. Will it go from 
haven to haven in safety ? Or will it be buffeted by 
winds and waves until it founders and plunges into 
the depths? Will its ribs and keel lie bleaching on a 
coral island ? or will it float, waterlogged, in the track 
of navio-ation ? How small the chance that it will 
return to anchor in the river-mouth where it was 
launched ! 

A youth who sets out from his native town may 
have as many good wishes as follow a newly launched 
vessel, but no voyage is more perilous or problematical 
than the voyage of life. If the native should return 
crestfallen and despondent, he may perhaps be com- 
forted by sympathy from the friends of his youth ; but 
if he holds his own while abroad, and needs nothing 
from those he left behind, he may get an indifferent 
welcome. This is not to say that townsfolk bear 
malice toward a native who has won a place in the 
world ; but the Scripture saying remains true, that 
a prophet is without honor among kindred and in his 
birthplace, at least until the generation that knew him 



THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 355 

in boyhood is passing away. The townsfolk may re- 
member too vividly the day of small things, — the boy- 
ish scrapes and peccadilloes, the grime of some menial 
service, or the undignified early associations. 

A native who contemplates returning to end his 
days among his kindred, will do so, if he is wise, while 
he is still in the vigor of manhood, and before failing 
memory and other infirmities make him a dazed and 
dumb creature, and before those who should know him, 
and whom he should know, are ready to look upon him as 
a stranger. The ties of old friendship may be broken, 
or may be stretched and atrophied ; in either case the 
genial current passes to and fro ho more. A group of 
silent, apathetic, indifferent townsfolk gives to a 
native a strange chill ; he would be more at ease with 
the ghosts of all their fathers and grandfathers. 

If he could adapt himself again to the old life, and 
step back with the fresh feelings of youth into the 
society he left, that v/ould be a delight ; but in most 
cases he might as well attempt to fit his broad shoul- 
ders with the boy's coat which his fond mother had 
saved as a souvenir. 

While memory is active, and faces come to him as 
they did when he played and fought with his school- 
fellows, he has an unutterable pleasure in recalling the 
beautiful days. The hills smile upon him as they lie in 
sunshine ; the swift river is oruro^lins^ for him under 
alders and vines ; for him the gilded vane is shining on 
the steeple as it points to fair weather. If he could 
only annihilate the interval of his absence, and forget 
what he learned and unlearned in the world without ! 
But he comes back a changed man ; politics, finance, 
professional studies, art, and literature, some of them 



356 OCABBIX 

have been possessing him and overgrowing him, as a 
coiling parasite grapples and masters a tree. The free 
and simple-hearted youth has been merged in the 
absorbed and preoccupied man, and between him and 
his old life the way has been closed up. As he looks 
back, the pictures of memor}' are touched with an 
unreal splendor, and are as distant as fairyland. In 
the depths of his heart he loves the old town, and has 
nothing but kind feelings for the old people, even for 
those whom he knew least. How gladly he would 
renew old friendships and intimacies, if it were pos- 
sible ; but circumstances are often stronger than 
inclination. 

A popular writer once deplored the tendency among 
literar}' men to hold themselves aloof from the com- 
mon people. Literary influence, he thought, lik". 
Christianity, ought to be diffused among all classes ; 
and how could this be, he plaintively asked, if writers 
and thinkers should continue to isolate themselves .-* 
Like many plausible suggestions made by impulsive 
men, this is wholly illusory and incapable of realiza- 
tion. Like consorts only with like, and without some 
community of thought, habit, taste, or purpose, no inti- 
macy is possible. The training of a poet, critic, or man 
of science, necessarily isolates him, because he is occu- 
pied with ideas which the uneducated cannot be made 
to comprehend. The vocabulary alone is an effectual 
barrier. A beginner with Herbert Spencer or Huxley 
has first to master a new language, and then to become 
familiar with a world of new ideas. 

Writers and thinkers in their hours of leisure must 
seek the society of those with whom they are in sym- 
pathy, and those from whom they will receive the 



THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 357 

Stimulus which comes in the clash of mind with mind. 
The intellect is never so active, original and forgetive, 
as when it feels the shock from collision with another 
of kindred temper. The philosopher cannot translate 
his ideas into the English of the field and the w^orkshop. 
In literature and science there are middlemen engaged 
in letting ladders down from the thought of Darwin, 
Emerson, Browning, Comte, and Hegel ; and even after 
one descent other ladders are often necessarv to land 
any lucid and comprehensible ideas upon the lower level 
of the unread. 

A client was told in court by Rufus Choate that judg- 
ment was given in his favor ''on demurrer." The cHent, 
who had expected to witness a display of oratory bv the 
great advocate, was disappointed to see the case ended 
after a short and (to him) unintelligible colloquy with 
the presiding judge ; and when going out of the chamber 
he exclaimed, " I don't understand about this demur- 
rer." — "The Almightv never intended you should," 
said Choate. 

When two men meet f-or the first time, the x, or 
unknown quantiiv. representing the studies, pursuits, 
tastes, and habits of each, is the subject of curious 
reciprocal inquiry ; and there ensues a series of tenta- 
tive equations made on the one side and the other, until 
approximations have been reached. 

Here is a man. for instance, who makes mathemati- 
cal calculations in molecular physics, — the architecture 
of the universe of atoms ; or he estimates the solar 
energv, or computes the totality of force effectuated 
bv winds and weaves around the globe. These vast 
trains of thought and speculation occupy a large 
part of his interior mental space, if such an expres- 



358 QUABBIN 

sion may be allowed ; yet he may talk agreeably upon 
politics, poetry, or art, and a stranger might not suspect 
the existence of that interior laboratory whose bulk 
almost equals the sum of his being. Such a man might 
seldom speak upon the themes which occupy him, for 
the reason that few would comprehend him. His inter- 
course with mankind would therefore be upon superfi- 
cial things ; and in his case the x would be huge, and 
his totality, minus the x, a disappointing remainder. 

Many a man carries about an x of more or less mag- 
nitude, — something for which he lives ; and few, 
beside egotists and other bores, let the secret be 
known except to closest friends. Lower down in the 
scale of intellectuality, unless it is among criminals, 
the X becomes insignificant. When two uneducated 
farmers meet they readily unpack their respective wal- 
lets. The weather, the crops, prices, wages, and taxes, 
are all their intellectual counters, and an exchange is 
easily made. In like manner two gossips have no diffi- 
culty in overhauling each other's mail-bag. 

Now, if a man who is almost wholly absorbed by some 
study meets another whose intellectual outfit is like a 
native African's wardrobe, on what terms can there be 
an intimacy, or more than a passing recognition } If 
there were to be a closer relation, it. must be that of 
teacher and pupil, which is seldom agreeable. 

So, if the native has remained long enough away to 
have become a changed man, whether for better or 
worse, there will be difficulties in the way of resuming 
old intimacies. The townsfolk are likely to misunder- 
stand him, and to misinterpret his conduct, even in the 
most trivial particulars ; for they do not know the 
nature and power of the x which dominates him. 






THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 359 

Few of the inhabitants of any small village can have 
a very wide experience of life; and it is not impossible 
for them to mistake slang for wit, and to be impressed 
by demonstrative manners and dress, which, with a 
fuller knowledge of the world, they would at once 
recognize as vulgar. But though the young people 
may be dazzled by jewellery, and may admire clothes 
of eccentric pattern, yet it does not take long for the 
elders to "size up" an ill-bred fellow who assumes to 
be "the glass of fashion." 

The reign of slang phrases, though brief ii^ a city, 
may be interminably tedious in a remote place ; when 
they have had their ignoble day at the capital, they are 
still fresh in villages like Ouabbin, especially among 
overgrown boys. And for a while the slang, with an 
occasional razeed oath, gives a curious piquancy to the 
rustic dialect. The Yankee does not indulge in solid 
and obtrusive oaths, but allows himself modified orth- 
lets, or colorable imitations. Sometimes two or three 
senseless collocations which have been *' translated^" 
{a la Bottom) from their natural meaning into nonsen- 
sical catch-words are bandied about during a whole sea- 
son by ''knowing" youths, until nervous people would 
wish them struck dumb. Probably this is a Yankee 
peculiarity ; for the British call all the current slang, 
and all the ready-made or second-hand jokes, Ameri- 
canisms. 

The returned native may notice these and other 
things which are not agreeable subjects of medita- 
tion ; such as flippancy, unknown in earlier times, a 
disposition to treat sacred themes with a familiar 
irreverence, a boastful defiance of parents, a derision 
of the maxims of the elders, a self-sufficiency wholly 



36o QUABBIN. 

in contrast with the modesty or ''humility" of the old 
time, and a chuckling approval of successful sharp- 
ness. As to the last, he will see that the tendency is 
not universal, though sometimes painfully conspicuous. 
It would appear that the career of the notorious Jim 
Fisk, chief wrecker of the Erie Railroad, who in his 
younger days was a well-known and successful pedler 
of dress fabrics, etc., in a large district which included 
Quabbin, had a demoralizing influence upon the country 
youth far and wide. It came to be the habit to say of 
a successful rogue or sharper that he was " smart." 
One story of Fisk was long current in Quabbin. His 
father, who was also a noted pedler, and, like his son, 
drove a handsome turnout, had sold a woman a dress 
pattern of calico which, though warranted fast in 
color, faded lamentably when washed. The woman 
complained to Jim when he called at her house on his 
round. '' How much did yeou pay a yard fer the cali- 
ker .? " he asked. *'Ninepence" (twelve and a half 
cents), was the answer. " No," said Jim reflectively ; 
'' no, the old man wouldn't du that ; he wouldn't 've 
told a lie fer ninepunce, — but he might ' ve told eight 
fer a dollar! " 

The unpleasant change in moral tone, as it appears 
to the returned native, may be only superficial. And 
he will recollect that there must have been a reaction 
after the slackening' of the old and rijiid rule. Those 
who live under mild laws keep an even mind when a 
change comes; it is only when laws have been griev- 
ous that their repeal is followed by excesses. 

One of the inevitable experiences is to find all boy- 
ish recollections of size and distance ridiculously dim- 
inished. The returned native discovers that the 



THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 361 

well-known hills and fields are small, and that the river 
is scarcely more than a dark and rushing brook ; that of 
the distances to neighboring towns, so formidable in 
boyhood, not one is too long for a comfortable morn- 
ing's walk. The white steeple with its gilded vane, 
once so much admired, now that he looks at it would 
not be too large for one of the lesser pinnacles of a 
cathedral The mansions have dwindled to modest 
houses, and ordinary dwellings appear small and poor. 
There is not room to turn about in the heart of the 
village ; and as for the narrow common, he wonders 
how the boys ever played round-ball upon it. But his 
exaggerated notions soon settle down, and he gradu- 
ally adjusts himself to the old dimensions ; it was he 
that was wrong ; the town remains unchanged. 

In the country round about it seems that the crops 
have decreased ; the great barns are no longer burst- 
ing with hay, nor does the gold of Indian corn gleam 
through the chinks of the lean-to ; all the people are 
fed with Western beef and flour. Many farms, though 
not abandoned, yield little return, except in shelter, 
garden vegetables, pasturage for a few cows, and plenty 
of fresh air. 

The owners must pick up a living as best they can ; 
the thin and stony soil can do no more for them. As 
we have seen, their sons are away in the cities, or in 
the far West, and their daughters are teachers, or are 
married and settled, and not in Quabbin. The houses 
of these people have a plaintive look, such as they 
themselves wear when they go to meeting. 

He remembers that the early settlers clung to the 
soil, like a colony of sea-cucumbers to their rock. A 
house seldom sheltered strangers ; long journeys were 



362 QUABB/JV 

uncommon, and letters from foreign countries and dis- 
tant States rarely came to the post-office. A family's 
lines of intimacy, however numerous, were as local and 
limited as those of the clothes-yard; but the native 
now knows that there are few houses, especially in the 
village, from which there are not ties of interest and 
relationship extending to some of the large centres of 
business, or perhaps to the uttermost parts of the 
earth. 

But whatever may have been the changes in the life 
of the town, the returned native finds himself every- 
where on familiar ground, and memory connects each 
spot with some event or emotion. Filaments from the 
core of his heart strike into the natal soil. Each 
bodily faculty is alert to bring out something from its 
own record of past sensations. The ear remembers 
the songs of native birds, and preserves them distinct 
from the carollings heard in Scottish valleys, in Eng- 
lish meadows, and German forests. It recalls the 
different voices of the men and women v^^ho once fre- 
quented the village. It hears anew, but faintly and 
far away, as in the telephone, the psalms and hymns of 
the long-silent choir, and the voice of the minister in 
warning, expostulation, and prayer. 

So, in miraculous freshness, flavors and scents re- 
turn, associated with images of color and form. On 
the bosom of the cove are spread anew the lily-pads, 
as in the old time, forming a green patchwork, whose 
rifts are studded with cups of dazzling white petals, 
enclosing tufts of gold. The coolness and fragrance 
of those lilies are as palpable to touch and olfactories 
as if they were that moment pressed to the lips. 

On warm nights in spring there used to come up 



THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 363 

from the cove the cries of thousands of frogs, — boom- 
ing basses, croaking- baritones, and keen-piping falset- 
tos ; and now, when the eye of the returned native 
catches the lilies, or when a thin mist draws attention 
to the still basin, the confused medley of those monot- 
onous concerts seems to return. 

On the shady, steep bank of the river, and on well- 
known hillsides, there were and still are checkerberry 
plants, sought by children in spring for the sweet pun- 
gency of the young shoots, and later for the delicate 
flavor of the dainty pink berries. This flavor and aroma, 
like that of the young bark of the fragrant black birch, 
belong to the New World. At the thought of the dark, 
glistening leaves and the sculptured, coral-tinted berries, 
the characteristic taste and scent are in the air, as if 
memory kept a store of nature's woodland essences. 
So it is with the more pronounced aromatic warmth of 
sassafras and sweet-flag, each siii generis and indescrib- 
able. The native well reAembers the rocky ledge from 
which he dug the one, and the swamp wdiere he pulled 
the other. 

As he passes walls and fences overgrown with vines 
and clematis, how the odor of wild grapes and of dusty 
white blossoms comes back to him, even in winter ! In 
bushy pastures the perfume of sweet-fern lingers like a 
breath of incense. On the arid plains is the whole- 
some and enduring scent of the silvery Everlasting; 
the native perceives and snuffs it, though it lies un- 
touched at his feet. Form, color, and sweetness are 
one in memory. 

When he thinks of the old-fashioned gardens, what 
delights for every sense ! The tinted bells of tall holly- 
hocks, the flat-topped bouquets of sweet-william, the 



364 QUABBIN 

convolutions of pinks and marigolds, the jaunty pin 
and-purple caps of sweet-pease, the deep crimson globes 
of peonies, the starry eyes of pansies, — all these are 
seen by the native in any spot ''where once a garden 
smiled," even though it is neglected and grass-grown ; 
and along with their vanished beauty come the odors 
of lavender, sweet-brier, mint, sage, and southernwood. 

Without going to the pond he sees in the still water 
near the share the round beds scooped in the sand by 
the roach for the cradle and playground of its young. 
The " pumpkin-seed," as boys call this short and chunky 
fish, with shadings of pale-green and black, and with 
scarlet-tipped fins, continually playing in exquisite 
curves, — a motion which men clumsily imitate in 
feathering an oar, — is ceaselessly hovering around 
those tepid shallows ; and its wariness, its arrowy 
flights, and the gleams of scarlet fins, are reproduced 
in the mental picture. 

Thus, while the native walks about art^id the scenes 
of his childhood, he is reminded of the past by innumer- 
able associations with every sense. He lives over again 
his school-days with former playmates ; and his toils, 
his sports, his trials, and his hopes, come back with 
glimpses of hill, field, and river; with the bloom and 
scent of flowers, and with the colors, flight, and song 
of birds. Subtle lines connect whatever he has per- 
ceived by any of the senses, so that as he walks he 
constantly touches some electric knob, and all his nerves 
feel the thrill. 

In all these scenes are beheld the human beings 
whose figures, lineaments, voices, and movements form 
for each a never-to-be-forgotten whole. Whatever was 
pcor or mean has dropped away, and the men and 



THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 365 

women, at their best, and as they aspired to be, welcome 
the native with friendly glances. Venerable hands 
that blessed him in infancy, hard and honest hands that 
have clasped his own fervently, and dainty white hands 
that he has dallied with, are beckoning to him. Faces 
that are brown and sober, or round and rosy, or refined 
and delicate, look as if they must speak of the unre- 
turning past. They are voiceless, but their eyes are 
eloquent. 

He climbs the hills, and sees the faint plumes of 
smoke over distant dwellings, thinking of the patient 
labor he has witnessed on those farms, and of the love 
and content sheltered for generations by the gray roofs. 
Returning, he visits the graveyard, and tarries long by 
the mounds which cover his beloved ones. In the rus- 
tle of the trees he seems to hear a voice, ''Wait a while ! 
Soon shalt thou, too, have rest." 

In the cool evening, by the margin of the wood, he 
hears the plaintive whippoorwill ; and it seems that it 
must be the same bird which he listened to with strange 
pleasure when a boy. 

With the waning light the sounds of day have sunk 
into silence. Night comes with the train of ancient 
stars which know no change. What unutterable 
thoughts come as he looks at the shining host ! In 
the morning he is awakened by the sun peering over the 
eastern hill, and touching the vane of the steeple. 
There is a new day, and the world begins its toil. And 
so it will be when he does not rise at that call, and the 
grass is beginning to grow over him. 



APPENDIX I 

It has been mentioned that within half a century the livino- 
theology and the methods of the church, in Ouabbin and else- 
where, underwent a silent change in fact, without any material 
alteration of the time-honored covenant. The change is still in 
progress, and is likely to be far-reaching. For instance, there 
was a strong controversy a few years ago, in an ecclesiastical coun- 
cil held in Indian Orchard (Mass.), over the ordination of a young 
minister who, in his examination, declared he was not satisfied 
that the heathen would be forever damned. In spite of his denial 
of one of the cardinal doctrines of Calvinism, the majority of the 
council consented to his ordination. 

The trials of Andover professors for heresy are familiar to all 
readers. If these trials appear to have been conducted in a super- 
ficial or half-hearted way, it may be because no living theologian is 
so grounded in the faith once held by the orthodox as to be an 
effective prosecutor. It would be instructive if some theologic 
Landor would write an imaginary conversation between a modern 
Andover man and Jonathan Edwards. With what indignation 
would that Boanerges disown and denounce the orthodoxy of 
to-day ! 

The controversy is enveloped in a cloud of words, but the most 
vital questions, are these : Will the future punishment of the im- 
penitent be without end? and are the Scriptures wholly inspired, 
in words as well as ideas ? 

Discussion of doctrine is no part of the plan of this book ; but 
it may be observed that the Calvinistic position on those questions 
has not been forced or turned, but rather silently abandoned. If 
the scheme of Calvin be regarded as a framed building, it has 
hopelessly sagged, so that there are no more levels, or perpendicu- 
lars. We are concerned with this fact (if it is a fact) solely on 



368 APPENDIX 

account of the attitude of the church toward what is generally 
called the progress of civilization. 

Whenever any comment is made upon the rule of the early Puri- 
tan Church in Massachusetts, stereotyped replies, kept in handy 
pigeon-holes, are at once forthcoming. The case for the colonial 
magistrates and clergy was presented by Lowell in an able and 
brilliant article, " New England Two Centuries Ago." The essayist 
had every qualification for his task, excepting, perhaps, an active 
sympathy with the progress of religious ideas. Every student of 
history admits the main contention ; namely, that the exclusion 
of religious opponents, of "cranks^' and impracticable theorists, 
was, at the beginning, a necessity for the existence of the colony. 
It could not have defended itself against the crown on one hand, 
and the Indians and French on the other, unless it had been a 
compact and homogeneous body, directed from the centre. In 
view of what the colony, or rather the people of Massachusetts, 
were to become, after being emancipated, enlightened, and liberalized, 
this " survival of the fittest '" was providential ; but if the result had 
been only to perpetuate and enthrone unenlightened Mathers and 
" Simple Coblers," with all that would follow such a rule, the down- 
fall of the theocratic fabric, would not have greatly disturbed the 
moral balance of the universe. Massachusetts became great, not by 
adhering rigidly to tradition, but by interweaving it with new ideas. 
It is freely admitted that the most of the ministers acted according 
to their light ; but they naturally supposed a seventeenth century 
Puritan the highest ideal of a man ; and that further development 
was impossible, or not to be looked for. 

The intention of the leaders was to set up a theocracy, and to 
govern the people as nearly as possible by the -Mosaic code. It is 
true there were Deputies and Assistants, who formed in a way an 
Upper and Lower House, and who, besides supervising the churches, 
exercised both legislative and judicial powers, unfettered by the com- 
mon law, or by the statutes of the mother country, and often with 
little of Christian charity. Had there been lawyers of experience in 
the colony, many acts of injustice and cruelty might have been 
prevented, and the reputation of a Christian commonwealth might 
have been preserved from dark and indelible stains. But no law- 
yers were permitted in Massachusetts until the colony was merged 
in the province ; nor had they even then any proper standing in 



APPENDIX 369 

such travesties of courts as existed, until a little before the out- 
break of the Revolution, The reason is obvious. At the elbow of 
every magistrate and deputy was a minister ; the office-bearers 
governed in the interest of the church, and the will of the ministers 
was never thwarted. Had there been independent courts, and 
learned, courageous lawyers, such outrages as the banishment of 
Roger Williams, the scourging and hanging of Quakers, and th3 
sending of Anne Hutchinson to her death in the wilderness, could 
not have happened. Under the provincial government, in the 
trials for witchcraft, the rules of law and evidence, and the estab- 
lished usages of British tribunals, are said to have been substan- 
tially followed. If this is true, it proves the barbarity of our 
race two centuries ago. Persons convicted of offences in the 
early years of the colony were frequently punished not according 
to statute, but according to the law of Moses, interpreted by the 
clergy 

It is not necessary to elaborate these points, as the subject has 
already been exhaustively treated. ^ 

It is obvious that the fabric of society, with civilization and 
religion itself, has its foundation and defence in law. Until the 
domination exercised by the ministers was thrown off, there was no 
hope of a stable government based on the will of an intelligent con- 
stituency ; of equal laws and orderly procedure ; of free thought and 
free speech ; of literature or art ; of the civilizing influences of com- 
merce ; of learning, science, or invention ; of toleration or human 
brotherhood. In a state of society such as prevailed dow^n to the 
time of the trials for witchcraft, any progress in enlightenment was 
impossible. For that reason any shock which that theocracy met, 
however rude or malevolent, was a blessing to after-times. 

In the work just referred to, Mr. Adams seems to regard the 
emancipation of Massachusetts as completed by the Revolution. 
Potentially this was the case, but the era of full emancipation ap 
pears to be of much later date. The rule of the clergy did not end 
until the divorce of church and State was accomplished, and the 
ministers were left to depend wholly upon voluntary contributions 
for their support. 

The orthodox Congregationalists have an historic position as 
lineal descendants of the Puritan Church ; and probably some of 

1 " The Emancipation of Massachusetts," by Brooks Adams. 



370 APPENDIX 

their leaders have deplored the changes which have deprived the 
body of its former prestige ; but the changes have brought com- 
pensations. When that church lost its hold upon the government ; 
its control of the schools and the college ; its power to lay taxes in 
every town for the support of its ministers, — losses which were inevi- 
table in the changed circumstances and ideas of the time, — it was 
gaining new vitality and making sure its future prominence in the 
State. A church and its ministers are never so strong as when, 
dispensing with statutes and privileges, they rely upon loyal hearts 
and willing hands. 

Cotton Mather, after mentioning the niggardly support given by 
a certain town to its minister, averred that there immediately fol- 
lowed a wide-spread and fatal murrain among the milch cows in 
that region; and, as if he himself had let loose the pestilence, ex- 
claimed exultingly that it would have been better for those people 
to have been more liberal with their minister. Nothing could illus- 
trate more vividly the difference between the notions of his time 
and ours than this foolish story, in which priestly arrogance, 
ignorance of natural laws, and a mean and degrading conception 
of the Deity are equally conspicuous. What would be thought to- 
day of such a scare-crow appeal to tax-payers? 

The Orthodox Church is now fairly in touch with the ideas and 
movements of the age. Its preachers are often men of command- 
ing talents, and are generally literary by taste and habit. Its 
members in all enlightened places may be prominent in science, in 
historical research, and in authorship. How different the case was 
sixty years ago, except in regard to theology, is well known. Per- 
haps other and eVen more vital changes may be witnessed in the 
next generation. If Unitar'ian'ism be considered a protest or re- 
action against the extreme doctrines of Calvinism, it may in good 
time have fulfilled its mission ; if it is based upon broad affirma- 
tions, sufficient for the intellect and with free scope for the religious 
sentiment, it will endure. Vital ideas are as indestructible as 
matter. 



APPENDIX II 

CIVIL LIBERTY 

It seems desirable to look at the idea of civil liberty as it was 
conceived by the founders of Massachusetts. It is probably impos- 
sible to say anything new in itself, but it may be possible to com- 
bine in one view something between indiscriminate eulogy and 
malevolent criticism. Nothing in this book is meant as disparage- 
ment of Pilgrim or Puritan. They acted their part according to the 
light given them ; and they believed that principles and forms of 
government, as well as personal liberty, should be subordinated to 
the rule of Christ on earth, or, what was the same thing, to the in- 
terests of their church. The State they founded became eventually 
the noblest of free and Christian commonwealths ; but though the 
original spirit came from them, it was modified and controlled by 
other influences, against which they and many of their descendants 
strove with their might. 

, If we think of what is contained or implied in the notion of a free 
State in this century, we shall find these to be the chief: i. Per- 
sonal liberty, subject to be restrained as a punishment for crime, or 
to prevent injury to others. 2. Political equality, jj^solute and uni- 
versal, except for public malefactors. 3. Toleration, or the inalien- 
able right of opinion upon religious and all other topics, but subject 
to restraint as to public utterance, when such utterance is subversive 
of law and order. Where these three notions are recognized there 
is freedom. 

Pilgrims and Puritans steadfastly upheld the first. The second 
they did not know, as it had not come into being. To the third 
they opposed all the energy of their convictions. 

There may have been previous attempts to set up political equality, 
but never by an enlightened, reasonable, law-abiding people, until 
it was made the ground-work of the Constitution of the United 

371 



372 APPENDIX 

States by the hand of Thomas Jefferson. And it is obvious that 
even he shrank from carrying the doctrine to its logical result in the 
general liberation of African slaves. He felt the incongruity, as his 
writings show, but it was left for later believers in the doctrine to 
complete his work. 

The distinctions in social rank, as recognized in England at the 
time, were preserved in the colonies, and had the sanction of law. 
It is well known that few servants were named in the list of the 
Mayflower's passengers. Sumptuary laws were justified by a clause 
stating that it was monstrous for people of mean condition to imitate 
the garb of gentlemen by wearing wide rufifs, laces, or long boots. 
The " seating of the meeting ''was a deference paid to superior 
rank. For an olTence a man might be deprived of the title of " Mr.," 
and condemned to be called thereafter " Goodman'' so-and-so. 
And no man could be a " freeman," that is, a citizen and voter, un- 
less he were a church-member, and unless admitted by special vote 
of the General Court. A person who was not a freeman lived on 
sufferance, and had few rights which the rulers were bound to re- 
spect. These facts, which are tediously familiar, show that there 
was not the least notion of political equality. The vision of a free 
commonwealth resting upon universal suffrage is wholly modern, 
and had not dawned upon the settlers of Plymouth or Boston. 
There is no reason for reproaching them on that account, for they 
were Britons, with the education and inherited prejudices of a peo- 
ple to whom political equality was unknown. It is commonly said 
that the feudal system came to an end in Great Britain some cen- 
turies ago, but there was never a greater error. 

Slavery lingered in Massachusetts until after the adoption of the 
Constitution in 1820. The system of indentured apprenticeship, 
and the binding out of friendless girls as house-servants, continued 
much longer. 

Political equality is to be considered as a purely legal status, and 
not confounded with social equality, which has never existed any- 
where except among obscure religious sects, such as the primitive 
church. The communism of the New Testament has never been 
taken seriously by any considerable body of Christians. In the 
United States a man has his right in court and at the polls, but no 
legal claim for social recognition, still less for brotherly love. 

As to the third element in a free State, toleration, it would be 



APPEXDIX ij-^ 

superfluous to dwell upon the position of the founders of Massachu- 
setts in regard to it. It was established after long struggles. It 
conquered by the suppression of Episcopalians, the scourging and 
hanging of Quakers, and by the banishment of Anne Wheelwright, 
and of Roger Williams. ^ The persecution, which at the time 
seemed to strengthen the government, had a reflex action little sus- 
pected. Every violent measure brought the triumph of peace and 
good-will nearer. Toleration became the rule in Massachusetts 
only when theological dogmas had been softened, and the church 
and State dissociated. 

In this matter, as in regard to political equality, we are indebted 
to Jefferson, — the Constitution of the United States forbidding reli- 
gious tests. This is a boon that will endure ; there can never be 
even an attempt to fetter the free mind. 

One anomaly still exists in Massachusetts, and perhaps in other 
States, namely, the exclusion from the witness-box of those who do 
not profess to believe certain abstract doctrines. In its results this 
is an infringement of natural justice. If an atheist were assaulted 
and beaten, or injured in his property, he would be without redress, 

1 Bancroft thus summarizes the views of Roger Williams : " The civil magis- 
trates should restrain crime, but never control opinion ; should punish guilt, but 
never violate inward freedom. The principle contained within itself an entire ref- 
ormation of theological jurisprudence : it would blot from the statute-book the fel- 
ony of non-conformity ; would quench the fires that persecution had so long kept 
burning ; would repeal every law compelling attendance on public worship ; would 
abolish tithes and all forced contributions to the maintenance of religion ; would 
give an equal protection to every form of religious faith. 

" Almost half a century before William Penn became an American proprietary, 
and two years before Descartes founded modern philosophy on the method of free 
rejection, Roger Williams asserted the ureat doctrine of intellectual liberty. It 
became his glory to found a State upon that principle, and to stamp himself upon 
its rising institutions in characters so deep that the impress has remained to this 
day, and can never be erased without a total destruction of the work. 

" He was the first person in modern Christendom to assert in its plentitude the 
doctrine of the liberty of conscience, the equality of opinions before the law ; and 
in its defence he was the harbinger of Milton, the precursor and the superior of 
Jeremy Taylor. 

'' We praise the man who first analyzed the air, or resolved water into its ele- 
ments, or drew the lightning from the clouds. ... A moral principle has a much 
wider and nearer influence on human happiness : nor can any discovery of truth 
be of more direct benefit to society than that which establishes a perpetual religious 
peace." 



374 APPENDIX 

if the case depended in any way upon his own testimony. " Athe- 
ism" has often been fastened upon foolish talkers, as well as upon 
conscientious persons who professed themselves unable to bring the 
tremendous and unthinkable attributes of the Former of the uni- 
verse into the limits of a personal or anthropomorphic God. It has 
also been required by statute that witnesses should qualify by 
avowing their belief in " a state of future rewards and punishments." 
Many an honest man might find it difficult to do this, if the words 
were literally construed ; and the more conscientious he was the 
less would he be disposed to frame an answer that would comply 
with the law. 

The natural remedy is to abolish oaths in courts of justice, and 
to substitute affirmations, annexing the penalties now provided for 
perjury. The taking of an oath is a relic of superstition, useless as 
a guarantee of truth, and, in fact, a prolific source of falsity. i 

If we consider now all that is included in the idea of a free com- 
monwealth, we shall be able to give such credit as is due to our 
Puritan ancestors. We are to remember that we owe to them 
exclusively free schools and local government by towns, — two 
agencies more important than any others in diffusing intellectual 
light, in making men worthy of freedom, and in fitting them to 
maintain it. Without these the doctrines of political equality and 
toleration would have had little practical influence ; with them, aided 
by the deep religious spirit, the truth, self-devotion, and ideality 
which marked the fathers, there has been set up a repubHc, 
strong in the hearts of men, firmly based also on law, and which 
recognizes the highest ethical principles ever embodied in a govern- 
ment. 

Perhaps the delay in the development of freedom was not only 
inevitable, but in the end advantageous. Perhaps the rule and 
the methods of the Puritan clergy were best for the future prosper- 
ity of a small, remote, and isolated colony. They could be useful 
and successful only so long as the people were obedient as one man 
to spiritual rulers ; only so long as intercourse with the great 
world was cut olT; only so long as the wretched roads made inter- 

1 After a trial in the Superior Court in Boston, in which tlie false swearing on 
both sides was evident and appalling, the chief justice, Charles Allen, pointing 
to an old and dirty volume on wliich the witnesses had been sworn, said, " Mr. 
Clerk, get a new Testament : that calf-skin is saturated with perjury ! " 



APPENDIX 375 

communication difficult ; only so long as men were debarred from 
general reading and free inquiry ; only so long as superstition pre- 
vailed, and the phenomena of nature were taken as signs of the 
anger of the Almighty. With the advance of learning, and the in- 
flux of new ideas from without, there came a relaxation of dogma, 
and an irresistible development of freedom. Then it was that " the 
stars in their courses fought against " the pretensions of the clergy 
and their allies, the magistrates. At last came the era of science 
and invention, — of railroads, newspapers, and general literature; 
an era of enlightenment so vivid and universal that the colonial and 
provincial centuries now seem to have been a continuance of the 
Dark Ages. 

It should be added that, in spite of the supposed leanings of the 
Federalists toward aristocratic institutions, political equality was 
welcomed in Massachusetts as early as anywheie in the Union. In 
Virginia, where the idea first took practical form, it was not fully 
realized until nearly a century afterward, when slavery fell by the 
proclamation of President Lincoln. 



APPENDIX III 

Singers in the olden times sang as birds sing : " As the old cocks 
crew the young ones learned.'" Books of musical notation were 
used in psalmody, but seldom for secular music ; and, in the coun- 
try, at least, there was no sheet music before the days of pianos. 
A singer caught a new melody by attentively listening to it, and 
learned the words by assiduous repetition. The singer referred to 
in the chapter upon "Working the Roads" had an extraordinary 
memory, — perfected by years of practice, —which retained the 
Bible as well as the two hundred songs. His powers would seem 
to make credible the handing down of the Homeric ballads, and the 
Gaelic legends and apostrophes of Ossian. 

He found the words of " Wolfe "'s Adieu " in an American news- 
paper of the early part of this century, without any hint of the au- 
thorship ; and he adapted them to an old English melody (which 
he had learned by rote), called " The Nightingale." It is probable 
that neither the words nor the music have ever been in print from 
that day to this. A search was made in the British Museum with- 
out result. The music is pleasing, but without much vigor or origi-' 
nality. The song will serve to show how people were entertained 
in the old days. 

The singer referred to was more successful in satiric songs, such 
as "The Vicar of Bray" and "The Embargo," a political skit 
against Jefferson ; but he sang many of a sentimental kind, like 
Campbell's " Soldier's Dream," with natural pathos and good taste. 



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